


my remedy for yesterday

by brokendrums



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:16:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokendrums/pseuds/brokendrums
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been three years since One Direction finally parted ways. Three long years where Niall’s stayed away from home on a never ending holiday. Three years since he’s seen Harry in the flesh and not just splashed across the tabloids or overplayed on the radio.</p>
<p>Niall’s just docked his boat in Ibiza, ready to soak up the sun, when an unexpected accident brings Harry into his life again. And while Niall recuperates on Harry’s patch of sandy white beach old feelings start to emerge, not all of them pleasant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my remedy for yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, a huge thank you to [ becomewords ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/becomewords) for their lovely art and fab mix! Go [ reblog ](http://becomewords.tumblr.com/post/112526758979/myremedyforyesterday) and [ listen ](http://8tracks.com/becomewords/my-remedy-for-yesterday) to it immediately!
> 
> Secondly, so much gratitude to [ threeturn ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn) for beta-ing this, especially so last minute. I really, really appreciate it and all your thoughts. Thank you so much! And to [ hindsight ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hindsight) for giving me a fresh set of eyes when I feared this was just going to be a mess of angry Niall! 
> 
> And lastly, huge thanks to the mods for their tireless work this year. Big Bang would never get off the ground each year without you!
> 
> **Please note** \- there is some non-graphic discussion of a prior accidental fire and the injuries sustained in it including concussion and mild smoke inhalation. Also, there are mentions of previous Nick Grimshaw/Harry Styles but the focus remains very much on Niall and Harry. 
> 
> Title from Won't Give Up - Duke Dumont.

He doesn’t remember the first time he wakes up. Or the second. 

But by hour three he can make out the blurred shape of the doctor telling him that he’s alright and to not panic. 

Willie’s there for Wake-Up-Number-Four. Bruised and battered but with a wary smile on his face. 

“Morning,” he says quietly, the baby asleep against his shoulder. Jordan in the seat opposite. 

“Thank God,” Niall mumbles. His mouth feels like sandpaper and he’s only conscious long enough to make sure that they’re both ok before he passes out again. 

For the fifth one, Niall’s sure he’s still dreaming. 

A nurse waves a torch in his eye, leaning over him to smack off the beeping machine on the wall. Niall feels groggy still, his head and body aching. He wants to roll over and go back to sleep, seeking solace in the dark but he has the urge to pee and every time he blinks it gets harder to ignore that it is in fact Harry sitting at the bottom of his bed. 

Niall doesn’t even think he had said goodbye the last time he’d seen him in the flesh. He’d just felt Harry’s cheeky grin against his mouth in a soft kiss and ushered him out the door because he’d be late for his flight. 

It wasn’t a goodbye moment.

Niall hadn’t expected him to never come back again. 

But he’s here now. 

“Hiya,” he says softly when Niall gathers enough strength in his arms to pull himself into a sitting position. Jordan and the baby are gone but Willie is still there, curled in a big chair beside the bed. He looks exhausted, eyes flicking silently between them. 

“Hello,” Niall says and immediately regrets it. His throat feels like it’s been cut to pieces. Harry reaches forward and offers him a glass of water from the jug on his bedside. There’s a bunch of suspicious-looking grapes there too. He knows they're not from Willie. 

He takes the glass from him, careful not to let their fingers touch and he sips from it, wincing as the water rolls over his shredded throat. He only spills a little bit down his front but he pretends that Harry can’t see as it soaks into the papery material of the gown he’s wearing.

He passes the cup to Willie instead, making him startle in the chair beside him. 

“What happened?” Niall asks him once he feels like he can talk without hurting himself. He ignores Harry. He's had a lot of practise. 

Willie glances at him and then over at Harry. 

“What do you remember?” Willie asks him gently. Niall shrugs, shoulders aching, and he falls back into the pillows plumped against the headboard. 

There’s a curtain round them, shielding them from the rest of the ward but by the voices and the heat he figures he’s still in Ibiza. 

It doesn’t feel real. The cannula flopping out of his elbow and - he shifts to make sure - the catheter in his dick. He could close his eyes and imagine he was at home, a very noisy version of his home, but home all the same. 

Home doesn’t come to mind when he closes his eyes though. Instead, thick orange flames lick up the back of his eyelids and he snaps his eyes open. 

“There was a fire,” he states with a rolling crunch of dread. Willie’s lips thin out. Niall inhales sharply and tries to gather the thready memories of seeing Jordan and Aoife this morning. 

“Everybody is fine,” Willie tells him, seeing the worry flash over his face. “Just a bit of smoke inhalation and a few scratches. You got the brunt of it. You fell over. The coffee table...”

Niall nods and stretches out his hand. His skin feels tight and it stings when he makes a fist, cuts slathered in cream to help them heal. They're from the glass coffee table in the living room. He doesn't think he'll forget that bit.

The boat wasn’t that big, just a little thing for the three of them and the baby to spend a few days on while they were in Ibiza. It was all kitted out, fancy chrome kitchen and a swanky bar up on deck. Niall had been in the bedroom near the back, all the way through the cabin. The others had been in the master up front. 

“Aoife?” Niall enquires and relief washes over him, numbing the pain in his muscles for a moment when Willie smiles. 

“Completely fine,” he tells him. There’s worry underneath his calm expression but Niall would be worried too if it had been his three year old daughter in a fire. “They’ve gone back to the hotel.” 

Niall doesn’t know where he got the time to get a hotel room. It doesn’t feel like he’s been here all that long but he's too exhausted to question him further. 

“Good,” Niall murmurs, eyelids drooping. 

Willie gives him a worried glance, blurring out round the edges as Niall falls into sleep before his next inhale. 

Harry’s still there the sixth time he wakes up. It’s only been an hour - he’s sure that they’ve been waking him up on purpose - but it feels like longer. There’s a nurse fussing and he’s disorientated for a moment as the covers are thrown back over him. He doesn’t feel as groggy as before, memory coming back to him quickly. 

He can feel the strength leave his knee as if he was standing. Feel the click it made as it kicked out of place and the hot carpet under his palms as he fell to the ground in the middle of the swish living area of the yacht. 

It had been hot, smoke filling up quickly. The doorway seemed so far away, Willie yelling for him. He had stumbled, the glass shattering under his hand as he went down again. 

Niall opens his eyes and Harry looks up guiltily from his phone. 

“Why are you here?” Niall asks him.

Harry’s mouth thins. “Um, I heard what happened and managed to get in contact with Willie and -” Harry looks up nervously. “Here I am.”

Niall settles back into the pillows. 

“How did you hear what happened?” Niall asks him warily. “It only happened -”

He goes to say this morning but he actually has no idea what time of the day it is. He glances over to Willie to make sure.

“Yesterday,” Harry supplies, glancing away. “Someone asked my publicist for a comment.”

“A comment about me nearly dying in a yacht fire?” Niall asks dryly. 

Harry’s face blanches. “Not exactly,” he says and then fiddles with the case on his phone. 

“Tell him,” Willie says quietly and Niall glares at him. He should be the one telling him. Niall is starting to feel like there‘s a big secret that neither of them want to tell him about. 

Harry sighs. He seems to be mulling it over before he grimaces and hands over his phone. 

It takes a moment for Niall to focus on the words, the screen too bright for him to concentrate on. 

“What the fuck,” Niall says quietly once they stop swimming. Harry’s face pulls taut into a grimace. Niall hits his knuckles off the darkened screen of his phone to bring the article back

**Harry Styles £1.5mil Yacht Disaster**

_The former One Direction band member is said to be reeling after his £1.5 million yacht went up in flames on the shore of San Antonio, Ibiza. The 26-year-old heartthrob - who is on a break from his whirlwind tour - has proven himself to be_ Fireproof _escaping from the blaze with minor injuries. An insider said that he’s recovering well in a local hospital._

Niall doesn’t bother scrolling down, he gets the top of Harry’s forehead in the press photo and stops. He doesn’t want to see that. Except he doesn’t have that luxury when he glances up and sees the real thing in person in front of him.

“What the fuck?” he asks him again. 

Harry pulls a face that Niall had nearly forgotten. “I don’t know how I got dragged into it,” he says, lifting his hand up to placate him. “I’m just on holiday.”

Niall settles back into the pillows. They’re hard. The blanket is scratchy against his bare knees. It’s like everything pulls sharply into focus - the chemical smell of the ward around him, the inane chatter that Niall doesn’t have the patience to translate from the next curtain over, the purpling bruise on the side of Willie’s face. 

He turns Harry’s phone over in his hand, smears across the front of it with his thumb. “Where’s my stuff?”

Willie shifts uncomfortably and Niall’s stomach sinks. 

“All of it?” Niall asks, already sensing the answer and Willie grimaces. 

He reaches into the locker beside Niall’s bed and pulls out a clear plastic bag. Inside there’s a charred hank of material. Niall doesn’t even want to open it. It feels a familiar weight in his hand but the plastic throws off the texture. It takes him a moment to realise it’s his wallet. 

“My phone was in my pocket,” Willie explains. “Jordan managed to get a few bits and pieces that were still in her handbag. Her credit card, passports.”

Niall groans and tears the bag open. There’s a whiff of smouldering paper and something damp, like it’s gotten wet and hasn’t dried properly. His wallet is mostly destroyed, half of it missing so it’s just a square of rounded out leather where he’s had it in his back pocket. The flap where his notes go gapes open and only one card remains, melted down until it’s useless. Stuck to the side is the charred burgundy cover of his passport. “Shit,” Niall mutters and pulls it apart. It separates down the spine, the pages inside stained brown and ate away at the corners. His photo is unrecognisable, the plastic over it bubbled up into a blue and yellow smudge.

“You can get a replacement,” Willie says gently as Niall stares down at the distorted image of himself. He can’t see himself, the fire wiping out any evidence of him. Niall swallows. 

“Everyone is ok,” Harry says, as if he knows that Niall needs a reminder. Niall had nearly forgotten he was there. He nods without looking up at him, turns towards Willie instead. 

“You should go back to the hotel,” Niall tells Willie. He looks drained and Niall’s starting to feel guilty from keeping him away from his family. 

Willie gives a long look before standing up. 

“I’ll be fine,” Niall reassures him. He’s just going to fall asleep again. He can already feel it dragging him under. 

“I’ll stay with him,” Harry says, as if Niall isn’t even there. Niall doesn’t even have the energy to glare at him. 

“I don’t need babysitting,” Niall says instead, but it’s pointless because Willie and Harry seem to be having some sort of silent conversation, like they’ve been chatting all afternoon about Niall’s welfare as he snored between them. 

“Phone me if you need anything. Harry’s got my number,” Willie murmurs to him, dipping down in an unusual display of affection to kiss his forehead. The sentiment is nice but Niall can’t help feeling like a child in his bed, hooked up to his machines and being tucked in. 

“Go,” he says quietly when Willie hesitates again, and watches as Willie’s face breaks into relief. 

Harry doesn’t say anything after Willie leaves. And he doesn’t move either. The empty seat beside Niall’s bed makes the space stretch between them. 

“You can go too,” Niall says quietly. He feels tired again, like twenty minutes of alertness is all he’s allowed today. “Go back to your holiday. I’m fine.”

Harry stays quiet but he’s staring now, unabashedly. It makes something flutter in Niall’s belly but he doesn’t allow himself to think about it as he stares back. 

“Ok,” Harry finally says. Niall wants it to feel like a victory but his eyelids are already closing and he can’t ward off his unexpected disappointment as Harry gets to his feet. 

*

The swish of the curtain is what rouses him this time. He hadn’t been fully asleep, just dozing since the last time a nurse brusquely shook him awake. There’re visitors down at the other end of the ward and they’re loud enough to keep him from properly sleeping anyway. The doctor says this means he’s improving. 

Niall wants them all to fuck off. 

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, squinting to bring his visitor into focus. It’s Harry and he looks guilty again for waking him up. He’s got a coffee in his hand and paper under his arm and an expression like he’s here on business. 

“Thought I sent you home?” Niall asks drowsily. He had but it turned out Harry hadn’t listened until the nurses came back and told him that nobody but family were allowed to visit.

He had been gone long enough for the nurses to come along and remove his catheter (excruciating), the doctor to drop by and tell him he had a concussion (unsurprising) and a visit from a very nice woman from the San Antonian police who told him not to leave the country until they fully investigated the fire (irritating).

“I brought you some stuff,” Harry says awkwardly, offering him a bag. It’s soft leather and Niall thinks of his fancy Louis Vuitton that’s now floating somewhere in the Mediterranean. 

“Thanks.” Niall forces a polite smile on his face and sets it on the bed beside him. The knowledge that he has nothing but the thin hospital gown on his back is beginning to properly sink in and for that reason alone he chews down the urge to refuse any gift from Harry. 

They sit in silence for a moment, Niall picking at the thread running along the scratchy hospital blanket. 

“Where’s my coffee?” Niall asks when Harry takes a sip from the cup in hand and nearly spills the whole thing down his front. Harry glances at him. 

“Thought you wouldn’t be allowed any,” he says with a shrug and Niall rolls his eyes. 

“I have a concussion, not a brain injury.” 

Harry frowns. “Pretty sure that’s what a concussion is.”

Niall clenches his jaw together. He forgot how annoying it was to argue with Harry. He always seemed to get the last word in. 

“So when can you leave?” Harry asks him and Niall shrugs. He thinks about telling him that he needs another day in hospital, just to make him leave, but the people in the next bed start to sing and Niall’s not sure he can last visiting hours much longer. The gown scratches his neck as he glances around at the family. They don’t look like they’ll be stopping any time soon. 

“Pretty sure I can go anytime,” he tells him. His throat is still raw and it’s starting to hurt the longer he keeps speaking. “Just have to come back if I feel sick.” 

There’s more. He could tell him about how the doctor has prescribed him three different types of painkillers. How he’s worried that Niall might black out or be crippled with migraines for the next few weeks. How Niall can’t smoke anymore because his throat is so fucked from the fire.

Harry stays silent for a moment, hand paused halfway to his lips. “And do you?” 

Niall glances up at him, takes in his scrutinising look. It feels odd to have him this concerned after so long not having Harry worry about him. He can’t work out how much it’s supposed to annoy him. 

“No,” Niall lies, because he does. The scent of coffee is making his stomach twist and his head still feels a bit woozy. He knows his voice has gone tight. 

Harry narrows his eyes again. “What is it? What did the doctor say?”

Niall’s hand shakes and he blurts it out without really thinking. He needs to get it out, tell someone. 

“They think I might’ve fucked up my vocal cords.” Niall looks away when Harry’s eyes go wide. He’s been talking in a rasp since he’s woken up but thought it would go away. He doesn’t want a fuss but he has the overwhelming urge to just _tell_ someone. He hasn’t sang in ages, not properly. The last tour seems so long ago -- nearly three years ago. He rarely gets above a hum in the shower nowadays but now, when he’s been told he’s at a risk of losing it all, he’s unsure how upset to be. He presses his lips together, tries to ignore the burn in his throat. 

“But,” Harry says, a little desperately. Niall glances at him. He knows that Harry would understand. “You don’t even have that severe smoke inhalation. They’re letting you go home.”

“I have to rest them,” Niall tells him lowly. Every scrape of his hoarse voice just makes it sound worse. “It’s something to do with how they’re already weak.”

Harry’s face goes tight. “They’re not weak. You’re not--”

Niall looks away again. He feels strange to have Harry reassure him like this. 

“I didn’t look after myself properly back then,” Niall says and can’t help how he means so much more than looking after his voice. From the corner of his eye he catches how Harry shifts closer to him.

“It’ll be fine,” Harry says reassuringly soft but when Niall looks up, he can see how he’s a little helpless. He’s leaning against the mattress, his hand stretched out as if Niall needs to hold onto it. He curls his fingers against his knees. “We’ll get you some of that disgusting sweet tea you like and put you on voice rest.”

Niall laughs, but it’s humourless. It vibrates up his sore throat and Niall wishes he hadn’t even bothered. He remembers Harry on voice rest, he was the only one of them to ever actually carry it through the whole day. He’d never cheat, sometimes he’d even prescribe it for himself. 

It used to be fun, trying to kiss him long enough that he’d forget. Make him moan.

Niall blinks the memory away. It’s not helping his dry mouth or his dry mood. 

“Apart from that though I’m fit as a fiddle,” Niall says brightly. Harry draws himself back into his seat again. "I’ll probably just check into a hotel. The police want me to wait until they’ve finished some inquiries.”

He tries to relax into the pillows behind him but finds he can’t. He doesn’t really want to think about the boat. He had asked the nurse to get rid of his passport and then spent twenty minutes on her phone, reassuring his dad he was okay before asking him if he had time to go to Dublin and sit outside the passport office all day. He’d kept his wallet. He doesn’t know why he can't part with it. The only real thing that he has left.

“It should be about a week. Anyway, Kelly’s dealing with everything else,” Niall says because she is, his wonderful assistant who lives back in London and barely sees Niall but does all his shit for him. He had spent nearly an equal amount of time on the phone to her, the nurse breathing down his neck because he was on an international line. She'll tweet something for him -- Niall doesn't care. 

Harry nods, like he’s had dealings with her already. It’s a bit unsettling that Kelly hasn’t told Niall about all of them, his correspondence being labelled strictly need-to-know. Harry opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak. Niall watches him with baited breath but he presses his lips together and stays silent. 

“I could do with getting changed though,” Niall says, just to fill the time. His hope that Harry would take a hint and leave is dashed though. He just seems to settle closer to the edge of the seat in case he needs to make a sudden lunge for him. 

He reaches into Harry’s travel bag and pulls out the first thing he sees, a pair of worn denim shorts and throws them onto the bed. Harry turns his head, giving him a semblance of privacy in the curtained bed on his noisy ward. Niall sways on the edge of the bed but appreciates it all the same. 

There’s a few pairs of soft grey boxers rolled up in the corner of the bag, along with a white t-shirt. There’s a faded design on it and Niall doesn’t look at it, too worried about pulling it on as quickly as he can. It gapes around the neck, clearly not brand new either and there’s a worn softness to it.

“Thanks,” Niall says more sincerely now that he’s dressed in Harry’s clothes. He balls up the plastic gown and shoves it under the scratchy top cover on the bed. Harry smiles thinly at him. 

“I can give you a lift?” Harry offers, standing up. He’s still a few inches taller than Niall but it feels like a foot. Niall steadies himself on the bed and shoves his feet into the pair of flip flops on the ground. His knee twinges. 

“Didn’t have anything your size,” Harry tells him when he sees Niall’s wince.

Niall nods and lets him believe that it was due to Harry’s choice in footwear. They’re a bit big but it doesn’t really matter, the toe bar keeps them on his feet as he slaps his way down the corridor towards the nurses’ station. Now he’s got a chance of getting out, he’s growing impatient. 

Harry follows him, half a step behind him. Niall can feel the shadow of his hand near the base of his back and the knowledge that Harry’s probably worried he’ll keel over weighs heavy on him. 

The nurse stares at Harry longer than completely necessary as Niall signs his paperwork, nib of the pen nearly tearing through the paper as he ticks the boxes declaring himself free to leave. Niall can see Harry’s polite grin from the corner of his eye and it just makes him more irritated. 

She takes Niall’s pen, passing him a few pamphlets about concussion and a box of ibuprofen into his hand before turning back to Harry. 

“Can you sign this please for me too?” she asks Harry.

“Sure,” Harry says, trademark smile plastered on his face. He reaches for the pen and glances up at her. “Who will I make it out to?” 

She falters a bit, giggles. “It’s actually for hospital records.”

Niall snorts and turns away, walking down the dim corridor towards the exit. Harry catches up to him quickly, an easy expression on his face as they find an escalator to take them to the entrance foyer. 

There’s a clamour of people waiting for them at the front doors. Niall frowns, readjusts his grip on the bag without realising it. 

“How long have they been here?” Niall asks because Willie hadn’t mentioned any of this to him at all. Harry glances at him.

“Must’ve just turned up,” Harry answers. They’ve slowed down their pace but it’s silly how close they are to the front doors now. They’re just putting off the inevitable. 

“You have a shit poker face,” Niall says tiredly and Harry shrugs. “Where are you parked?” 

“This way,” Harry says, reaching out to grab Niall’s forearm. Niall has the urge to twist himself out of it but the photographers spot them then and surge forward, cameras flashing, and Niall’s grateful for Harry’s hand guiding him through them. He feels disorientated, not used to having to deal with a crowd like this in so long. 

It’s a melee of HarryHarryHarry. Hands coming out in all directions to get a touch of him. He looks the perfect picture of health as he grins at a few cameras. He pulls Niall into the carpark, unlocking his car with a bleep before turning to talk to a random reporter, allowing Niall to slip into the front of his car. 

His car is sleek, a fancy black Merc with air conditioning that blasts into Niall’s face as Harry navigates them through the town. 

“You certainly know your way about,” Niall comments as Harry stops at a junction on the way out of town. It’s the first they’ve spoken since Niall got into the car. He can feel the silence gnawing at him. “Where are you staying?”

“Got a villa by the beach,” Harry tells him. He frowns at the cars in front of him and doesn’t look round at Niall, staying focused on the traffic. “Willie’s staying in town.”

Niall nods, hair mussing against the headrest. He wants a shower and a soft bed. Niall watches a few cars go past, eyes drooping as Harry starts the car again and the wheels tread softly below them. 

“Listen,” Harry says, fingers tapping on the steering wheel -- they’ve barely moved. Niall’s drifting off, eyes shutting from the glare of the sun. “I’ve been thinking about it. Do you want to stay at mine? Just for a few days?” 

Niall blinks his eyes. 

“It’ll be nice and quiet. There’ll be no lads’ holidays in the room next to you. You won’t have to worry about paying for it.”

It’s a complete mistake. He hasn’t seen Harry in ages. They’re not friends anymore. There’s a distant familiarity to being back in his company but they’ve probably changed so much. It wouldn’t be the same. 

Except.

Niall maybe wants to. There’s a tiny bit of him that’s inexplicably drawn to the idea. He can’t place it. He wants to shower away the grime of the hospital and lie in a bed with clean sheets. He wants home -- wherever that is now. He hasn’t seen Harry in so long. 

He blinks his eyes again and they’ve parked in a driveway. The traffic jam is gone. Niall’s staring at an overgrown fuschia plant in a gravel flower bed beside the huge black door of a white-walled villa. He can smell the sea somewhere through the cracked window. It’s silent, just the hum of the engine cooling down and Harry disconnecting his phone from the speaker system. 

“Does this count as kidnapping?” Niall asks groggily. 

Harry looks alarmed. “You said yes,” he says, voice going higher than necessary. Niall sits up. His head feels too heavy. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing but they’re here now so he reaches for the door handle. 

The villa is huge. All white walls and sleek furniture. The foyer opens up into a luxurious living room with long black sofas and a soft looking white rug. A wide, curving staircase winds up to the bedrooms but Niall’s drawn through a mosaic archway into the kitchen that spans the entire back of the house. There are vasefuls of flowers on the table, mismatching chairs gathered around it, and a glass wall revealing the unmarred beach and ocean sprawling out in front of them.

“Holy shit,” Niall says, because the sun is dipping down low in the sky, almost reaching the horizon, and the sky is turning a pinkish lilac. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, just hovers behind him. Niall drops the bag of clothes he had brought earlier onto the tiled floor of the kitchen and steps out onto the deck. 

The garden stretches out down to the beach, green grass that Niall doubts is completely real and shiny tiles lined around a swimming pool. There’s a stretch of deck, tasteful white wood that matches the rest of the decor and a little alcove in the corner. There’s white cushions and a string of fairy lights that Niall presumes are white too when they’re switched on. 

“This is very fancy,” Niall comments and Harry shrugs. He’s standing on the runner of the door, a few inches taller and rocking back on his heels.

It’s still warm out as Niall squints over at him, takes in the healthy flush in his cheeks and the shine in his hair. He’s wearing a shirt with sleeves he probably cut off himself, tan ironing itself out in the patches of skin still visible. 

“I’ll start on dinner if you want to shower?” Harry says, watching him carefully back. 

Niall nods, feels a bit out of sync. He’s already starting to regret coming home with him. He could be in a fluffy dressing gown and ordering room service right now. Harry could crawl right back into whatever hole he came from and Niall wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t.

“Ok,” Niall agrees anyway and walks back towards the house. Harry takes a moment to leave and it’s the closest they’ve been face to face in some time. Harry’s still a few inches taller from his perch on top of the door frame and he smells of the sea and the hospital. Niall’s sure he’s smelt worse.

“Bedroom is on the left,” he says, and when Niall blinks he’s already stepping back, drifting into the well-equipped kitchen. 

The stairs lead up to a balcony hallway with doors in all directions. He goes into the one on the left as he’s told and drops the bag on the bed. It’s roomy, a huge bed in the middle of the room and a sofa that looks out onto another huge window. 

It seems lived in, the decorations on the dressing table more like clutter and the smudges on the full length mirror beside the wardrobe. It’s empty, just a handful of hangers that swing when he opens the door wide. 

Niall brushes his teeth methodically. It might be the lack of sleep, or the fact that he doesn’t want to face Harry yet in the kitchen but he takes his time. Brushes up. Brushes down. 

Harry’d got him a new toothbrush, nestled in beside a rolled-up pair of socks and the rest of the clothes he’d brought him to the hospital. It’s probably the only thing in the bag that’s new. It’s blue and has a silver stripe up the side. He quells the urge to pay him back. The bristles are too hard and the foam around his mouth is already starting to turn a yellowy, faded pink with blood from his gums. 

The light above the mirror is bright and washes him out. He looks pale in his reflection and it’s the first time he’s properly looked at himself since everything that’s happened. 

There’s a bruise along his hairline, purple and mottled, disappearing into his limp hair. He isn’t sure how big it is but when he presses his fingers along his scalp, pain twinges until he reaches an inch past his ear. He edges his fingers carefully along his hairline, spiderweb cuts on his hands stinging as they unknit with the stretch. 

He spits. There’s blood smeared across the porcelain and it takes a moment to wash away. 

His mouth still tastes metallic, something rough and heavy at the back of his throat. He clears it, runs his tongue over the minty clean of his teeth. 

The mirror opens into a cabinet, something that’ll always remind him of being on tour and away from home. He has the urge to peek into it, like he always does. (He’ll be sneaking off for a piss at a party and have a rummage through the drawers under the sink, take a look through the dog-eared sudoku magazines shoved down the side of the loo, step on their electronic scales.) It squeaks when he opens it, his mirrored image giving way to a flash of the closed door over his shoulder before he can’t see any of the glass anymore. 

The cabinet is full. 

It doesn’t really fit in with the image in his head of bathrooms on tour, all of them blending together from hotel to hotel but still the familiar empty shelves and tiny bottles of shampoo in each one. It’s jarring with what he expected. It’s more like a cabinet at a party, full of a strangers stuff -- a villa this fancy would most definitely have been cleaned before Harry had arrived. 

But there’s floss open on the bottom shelf, half of it pulled out from the little plastic packet, a crumpled box of plasters shoved into the back behind a half empty bottle of TCP. There’s a sticky looking bottle of lube on the second shelf, a razor propped up against it. A stack of condoms and a tub of hair gel. 

Niall slams the door closed half by accident, glass rattling as something inside topples over but Niall doesn’t stop to see what it is, he’s already pulling open the bathroom door. 

“Harry!” he shouts into the house. Everything is white and cool. His flip flops slap on the floor but Harry’s feet, when he hears him, are louder. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks coming round the corner quickly. They bump into each other, Niall stubbing his bare toe on Harry’s shin and Harry reaching out to steady him. They brush into the wooden banister and Niall goes dizzy for a moment before Harry tugs him away from the balcony. 

“There’s all this stuff in the bathroom,” Niall tells him once he’s blinked away the fuzzy edges in his vision. Harry stares at him for a moment before he slumps in relief. 

“Thought you were sick or something,” Harry says and then laughs, smooths his hand over Niall’s shoulder before stepping back and letting go of him completely. He looks like he’s been caught out. 

Niall glares at him. “There is someone else’s stuff in the bathroom.”

Harry frowns a bit. “Right? Do you want me to chuck it out?” 

Niall tries not to let his frustration get the better of him. It’s boiling into a rage and Niall can’t stop it. He follows Harry through into the bathroom. Harry’s feet stick to the tiles as he goes where Niall’s flip flops slap.

“You don’t seem too bothered,” Niall accuses him hotly. There’s something rattling inside him, fizzing up through his belly and into his chest. His head throbs. “I’d get onto the travel agent.”

Harry’s face breaks into a grin. “No need for that. Just shove it all on one shelf.”

“On one shelf?” Niall parrots. “Why do I want to keep some random stranger’s stuff?”

Harry smiles. “It’s not a random --” and then cuts himself off abruptly. 

Something flickers at the back of Niall’s brain but he can’t process it properly, the fuzz in his head is getting worse. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. 

“Who does it belong to?” Niall asks instead. 

Harry shrugs. “Does it matter?”

It suddenly does. Niall just needs to know. He grips the side of the sink and it’s cool against his fingertips the opposite to the furious fire everywhere else.

“Well, it does now that you’re acting so shady about it.”

Harry rolls his eyes this time and it’s like a sudden relief, seeing that Harry isn’t as polite as he’s acting, that he’s actually going to give Niall a real emotion. All he’s had is quiet, worried Harry playing Florence Nightingale by his bedside. Harry who brings him bunches of shrivelled grapes and soft pairs of boxers that Niall remembers from years ago. Harry who sups coffee out of paper cups and has to countersign his discharge papers as if Niall can’t look after himself. 

“Just chuck it,” Harry says putting his toe to the pedal bin beside the loo. He makes a show of lifting the dental floss and tossing it into the bin. It lands with a thump. 

“Who was staying here?” Niall repeats as Harry lifts up the razor and lumps it into the bin as well. 

“Niall,” Harry says tersely. “What does it matter?”

“They obviously left in a hurry,” Niall explains. It’s irritating him more than it should but he’s already this far into the argument he may as well finish it. He doesn’t like the idea of someone living in the room up until this morning and being unceremoniously chucked out because Niall’s arriving. Harry gives him a look, bottle of Durex Very Cherry in his hand. It lands with a twang in the bin, binned just like whatever guest Harry had before. Niall inhales. Just like that, out with the old -- in with the new. Niall knows the feeling.

“They’re gone now, you’re here. Didn’t think I had to get the place fumigated for your arrival. Don’t worry, the sheets are clean,” Harry snips. Niall breathes harshly out of his nose. 

“You implied that you had the space for me,” Niall says through gritted teeth. He’s trying not to raise his voice. His head is starting to thump. His hands curled into fists. “I don’t want to ruin anybody’s--”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Harry cuts him off. “I offered you a place to stay, just bloody well deal with what you’re getting. You haven’t ruined anything.”

“I said yes because I didn’t want to go to a hotel,” Niall snaps. “I didn’t think I would be putting anyone out. I would’ve just checked in somewhere, I still could.”

Niall isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a threat. There’s nothing there to add weight to it. He hasn’t seen Harry in years, Harry probably wouldn’t even care if he tapdanced his way back into town.

Harry fires the last of the clutter from the cabinet into the bin, then stoops over to take the bag out of it. He ties it into a quick knot, face like thunder. 

“Do you want anything else,” Harry asks, “ _sir_? Turn down the bed for you? Room service?”

“Oh, piss off,” Niall snaps. He refuses to move out of Harry’s way and isn’t surprised when Harry shoulders him a few inches to the left so he can get out of the bathroom. His chest has the echo of an ache for a few moments but it’s gone before Harry’s even through the bedroom. 

He’s fuming now, that frustration melted down into pure anger in his empty belly. It’s all that he’s running on. He can visualise Harry’s smarmy grin at the nurse, feel his clammy hand on his wrist as he guided him through the crowd. He doesn’t need Harry swooping in to take care of him. He paces the tiled floor in front of the bed a few times, listens to Harry clanging about downstairs. It’s infuriating, Harry’s infuriating. 

He’d have to have chucked them out before he even went to the hospital. Left them -- sheets still warm -- when Niall hadn’t even said he’d stay yet. Niall curls his fingers into a fist and wishes he just went to a hotel. Fuck him for reading him so well.

Niall slumps down onto the bottom of the bed, anger seeping out of him, exhausted. The extractor fan hums loudly from the bathroom. Downstairs Harry’s gone silent. 

He’s asleep before he registers that he’s curling onto his side.

 

It’s the extractor fan going off that wakes him, the sudden silence. It’s dark and he’s still in his shorts -- Harry’s shorts -- the denim cutting at the side of his hip. His t-shirt sticks to his back as he rears up and tries to orientate himself. 

“You’ll not sleep properly there,” Harry’s rough voice sounds out and when Niall blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark. He can see him paused halfway from the bathroom door. “You need your rest.”

“M’fine,” Niall says defensively and looks away before he can see Harry’s shadowy expression. He pushes his feet down onto the floor but one of his feet has pins and needles, something he’s more than used to now that his knee has started to act up again. He wriggles his toes and tries not to hiss in pain.

Harry makes a noise, half tutting as he comes across the rest of the room. His hand is warm when he wraps it around Niall’s bicep, pulling him up onto his feet so he can take most of his weight. 

Niall hides his wince in Harry’s shoulder and presses his heel to the ground, biting his lip at the effort it takes not to take the pressure off it again. The pain radiates through his muscles before finally petering out. 

“I’m fine,” Niall repeats, unclenching his fingers from Harry’s side. Harry doesn’t say anything, just strips Niall’s t-shirt up off his back with unsurprising efficiency. His fingers go to Niall’s waistband next, a knuckle to the muscles of Niall’s abdomen. 

“Bloody hell, Harry,” Niall exclaims. He should’ve expected it but a few years away from his constant touches made him forget how forward he can be. “I can do it myself.”

Harry tuts again and steps away, edging round the bed to the head of it. Niall unbuttons the shorts, lets them fall down to his ankle. There’s a dent in his belly from the button and it’s hot when he rubs his fingers over the groove there. He hadn’t realised how sore it was where it had been digging in. 

“So,” Niall says because the silence stretching out between them is getting ridiculous, plus he can’t really stop himself talking, he’s too tired to censor himself. “You really do do a turndown service?” 

Harry freezes, Niall can see the plane of his back from the moonlight through the window. 

“I’m sorry I said that,” Harry says, voice still slightly rough. Niall nods and steps out of the denim at his feet. He walks around to Harry and sits on the bed, the sheets cool underneath his skin. Harry stays there, bent slightly at the waist, and Niall isn’t sure what to do. He glances up, catches the whites of his eyes as he meets Harry’s stare. 

He keeps it as he backs into the middle of the bed, kicking his feet to get the sheets untucked from the far corner. It’s an invitation of sorts. One he’s too tired to really think about properly. He holds his breath without realising it before Harry follows him in, long limbs seemingly everywhere as he lies down beside him. 

“You’re not putting anyone out,” Harry promises him quietly. Niall nods again, hair going static against the pillow but doesn’t say anything. There’s still something off between them. A barrier that neither of them are willing to break down just yet but Niall can’t think much about it, his head is too clouded for that right now. 

Harry rolls onto his side, dragging the sheet around his waist until he’s curled beside Niall, the stretch of his back to him. Niall can’t bring himself to touch him. Can hardly bring himself to move in case Harry will suddenly remember he’s there and bolt out of the bed. There’s something nice about having someone there, even if they aren’t touching or talking or even friends anymore. Just a warm body on the other side of the bed. Letting Niall know he’s not completely alone.

Niall blinks and blinks again until he can’t remember to open his eyes.

*

There’s a dishwasher at his knee, all sleek and fancy with buttons and lights and a steamer to dry the dishes afterwards but Niall sticks his hands into the sink full of bubbles instead. It’s roasting and he lets out a quiet hiss and then gets back to work. 

It feels better to do it himself, work the sink brush around the rim of the glass Harry drank from last night and then moving onto the greasy plates from last night’s dinner. There had been a plate for him left in the oven and Niall had stared at it, feeling guilty and embarrassed about the previous night before scraping it into the bin. 

The pots need some extra effort to get the last of the grime around the side of pan. He holds his breath, works his arm until he can feel the strain of use, and then dunks the pan into the soapy water again. 

When he lets out a breath it makes him feel dizzy. 

Once he’s cleaned the counters and put all the dishes away he looks for a brush. He can feel grit sticking to the soles of his feet as he searches through the cupboards in the kitchen. Everything is out in the open, Niall isn’t sure where you could hide away a mop and bucket anywhere. The only cupboard big enough to house one has enough alcohol to stock a bar instead; bottles of vodka and gin and whiskey all lined up in a neat little row on the ledge and crates of beer stacked on the floor. That would explain the bags of limes in the fridge then. 

He can only find a dustpan and brush and he rolls it over in his hands for a moment, surveying the expanse of white floor tiles that stretch out across the entire bottom floor of the villa, into the living room and patio area. His back will ache before the day is done. Maybe that’s what makes him do it.

He finds three odd socks underneath the sofa and Harry’s passport shoved down between the cushions. There’s a ring that Niall doesn’t recognise, four euro and sixteen cents in change and a squashed packet of cigarettes hidden along with it. Niall leaves them on the coffee table and lets a little pile of his finds accumulate. A crumpled six of spades joins it when Niall gets to the second sofa, then three Corona bottle caps and half a blue foil square that Niall presumes used to house a condom; he takes much more care handling that one.

He sweeps the crumbs onto the floor and then bends over to brush them all into a pile in the middle of the floor. There’s a hair grip tangled in fluff, an entire dorito and a hotel key card in there by the time he’s done. 

“You‘re up early,” Harry says from the doorway. Niall looks over his shoulder. He feels hot, sweat building up on his brow and the back of his neck. His shoulders are still tense, back muscles taut from being hunched over with the brush but it’s easing, everything else is easing away. 

“Just tidying,” Niall explains and stoops over to brush the last of the mess into the dustpan. 

“You’ve done the whole place,” Harry says, stepping into the living room properly. He looks down on the floor and then back up at Niall. “You’re supposed to be _resting_.”

Niall rolls his eyes and dumps the contents of the dustpan into the plastic bag he’s been toting around with him. He drags a tea towel over his brow and throws it into the washing machine with the socks and a t-shirt that clearly doesn’t belong to Harry he’s found lurking down the back of one of the sofas. 

“I’m gonna mop next, so -” Niall waves the brush around in a gesture that should mean _get out._

Harry frowns. “It’s hardly morning.”

“Best get it done before it really warms up.” Niall’s feeling much too hot already. There’s a steady stream of sun coming in from the patio doors, cutting a huge rectangle of bright light into the middle of the room. 

Harry nods. He looks sleepy still, eyes droopy and hair a mess. It’s pushed back up off his forehead, making him look younger. He scratches at his belly, still shirtless and Niall turns back to the pile of rubbish before he gets caught looking. 

“Have you at least had breakfast?” Harry asks, shuffling through to the kitchen. He hasn’t, just knocked back three ibuprofen and half a bottle of water. They’re wearing off already, he needs something stronger probably. 

“Wasn’t that hungry,” Niall says instead and Harry gives him a disappointed look. Niall does his best to ignore it, going on the hunt for some Dettol instead. 

Harry sets out a box of muesli and two bowls, spoons pinging against the marble of the kitchen island. 

“Sit down and eat, would you?” Harry asks. It’s the first sign that maybe he’s a bit more worked up than he’s letting on. “You need to take care of yourself.”

Niall doesn’t say anything but he drops into the seat as he’s told and takes the bowl Harry gives him. 

He’s still not hungry but he shoves a spoonful into his mouth and chews it down, even though it tastes like gritty straw. Something overly sweet gets caught behind his tooth and he winces. 

“How long were you here for?” Harry asks lightly but Niall can hear the curiosity under it. He pushes his spoon through the bowl of muesli in front of him. It’s soaked by the milk, gone to mush. When he glances up Harry’s mirroring him, hand poised above his own bowl of cereal. 

Niall hums because he isn’t really sure. 

Harry’s face looks closed off and older than Niall’s ever really seen him but he supposes he hasn’t actually seen him in a while, he might just look like this now. There’s a crinkle on his forehead that deepens every time he smiles and the stubble on his chin looks darker, finally grown further than the wispy mess he used to be so annoyed with. Niall had liked it, primarily because Harry used to get so pouty when someone took the piss out of him for it but also for how it felt, soft and slightly scratchy Harry’s day old chin felt against Niall’s when he was clean shaven. 

“Don’t know,” Niall shrugs. His stomach feels tight and if he puts any of the cereal into his mouth he knows he won’t be able to swallow, throat locked up. He’s been drifting for a while now, rotating through his friends around the world all because he can’t face going back to London. He’d only just arrived in Ibiza though, finally after a few long summer months with Deo. “I’ve just been playing it by ear really. Willie was staying the weekend and then I might’ve went somewhere new.”

Harry’s looking at him when Niall glances up again. He jerks his hand when he realises he’s been caught and shoves his spoon into his mouth. He chews wetly through it, loud enough that Niall can hear. It sets him on edge and now he knows it’s happening he can’t stop hearing it. 

“What were you over for then?” Niall asks and then clenches his teeth together again. Harry shrugs, eats another mouthful of cereal before he’s properly finished swallowing the last. It chomps wetly in his jaws. Niall grits his teeth against the urge to tell him off. 

“Holiday,” he says with a full mouth. Niall’s fingers tighten around his spoon. He hasn’t moved it in the last few minutes and Harry seems to have noticed, his eyes flicking down to the untouched bowl of Niall’s breakfast. “I haven’t had any time off longer than a few days in ages so I thought I’d go on holiday. It’s uh - it’s a friend’s birthday.”

Niall nods. It’s the first hint at their disagreement yesterday and he wants to ask more but if he opens his mouth he’ll just demand that Harry stops eating like that. 

“I can’t believe we never did Ibiza,” Harry mutters. “Seems like every guy our age has done the whole lads holiday.”

“Suppose we were a bit busy,” Niall shrugs and pushes the still full bowl into the middle of the table in front of him. He can’t stomach any more. There’s a tightness behind his eyes that’s making him feel queasy. 

He can feel Harry’s eyes on him as he pushes two paracetamol out of the blister pack. One rolls when it lands on the sleek table and Niall’s too slow when he reaches out to catch it, fist coming down onto the counter clumsily a second too late. He blinks and his vision goes funny for a moment before he picks it up from where it’s skittered over near the fruit bowl. 

The chair scrapes loudly against the floor when he stands up, cheeks flaming when he catches Harry’s eyes following him. 

Bottles of water are lined up neatly in the fridge when Niall opens it but he reaches for a Corona instead. 

“Should you be drinking that?” Harry asks sceptically from the table. He’s leant back in his chair now, showing off the lean flank of his side the way he’s stretched. “You had a pretty bad concussion, you‘ll make it worse.”

Niall’s fingernails dig into his palm and he makes a show of opening the bottle of beer off the side of the counter with the base of his hand. Harry’s eyes narrow at him and he stands there for a moment, locked in a silent battle of stares. 

“Do what you want,” Harry shrugs and goes back to his cereal. Niall thinks he can hear his chewing from all the way across the kitchen. 

“Will do,” he says tightly and takes a swig. It tastes bitter at the back of his throat and there’s a split second where he could happily heave but he swallows down the residual saliva that floods the back of his mouth and takes another swig, swallowing down the tablets. 

If he’s going to be locked up in Harry’s villa for a few days he’s going to make the most of it. 

The bottle cap rings in his ear as he drops it onto the marble counter top and Harry shakes his head, looks disappointed for a moment until Niall looks away. 

“S’just a headache,” Niall snaps. He can’t help himself. Harry’s head spins towards him, mouth still full. 

Niall pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes, suddenly feeling a bit shaky. He didn’t mean to snap but it relieves some of the irritation buzzing under his skin as he steps out onto the deck and settles into a chair, the sun still making his eyes sting under the lenses. 

Mopping will have to wait.

*

Niall shuffles the deck of slightly bent out of shape cards in his hands. They’re sticky, obviously fallen victim to a drinking game or two. They’re all he can find though, except a collection of battered holiday reads that are stacked on a shelf in the corner. 

It feels very shabby holiday home, like the caravans in the arse of nowhere he had been dragged to when he was a kid and they weren’t going on a proper holiday that year. They’d spend a week on a drizzly beach dodging dead jelly fish and eating squashed ham sandwiches full of sand and then have to burn off their sugar rush from Red Lemonade until the tide came in or Niall was dead on his feet -- whichever came first. His mum would sit behind a windbreaker that she’d rammed in with a stone Greg had scouted at the start of the week in the sand dunes and make her way through a list of crap, weatherbeaten novels while drinking something stronger than tea out of an old flask. 

At least Ibiza’s weather was a bit better than the Donegal coast. 

It just doesn’t mean he’s any less bored. 

He’s sitting at the coffee table, just in the doors from the patio. The sofa was just that much too far away so he had to scrape the table towards him, tiled floor bedamned, so he could sit on the edge of the sofa. His bare thighs are perched on the end of the cushion so he doesn’t get any warmer and his knees can splay out in front of him. 

He shuffles the cards, feels them stick to his palms. He counts three out, turns them out onto the table and frowns. He’s stuck. His solitaire is creeping out across the glass table top and the cards in his hands are meagre. He’s got nearly a whole line of cards still face down in front of him but he can’t get his five of spades shifted. 

Harry steps in through the patio doors then, in a waft of coconut tanning oil and sun bleached salt water. 

“Are you coming out?” he asks him gently. They’ve hardly spoken all day, not since Niall had left him at breakfast to chew his muesli obnoxiously loudly to himself. It seems like a lifetime ago, hours dragging by in the blistering heat. 

“It’s too hot,” Niall tells him. It’s a half truth, the heat making him too lazy to make any effort but it’s really his head that’s giving him the trouble. It’s thumping again, the sun only making it worse. He thought that the shade inside would make him feel better but there’s still a steady throb at the back of his skull even though he‘s been in the shade for nearly an hour.

Harry nods beside him and doesn’t move. He’s shiny from the oil and turning a shade of sun kissed pink that Niall knows will turn deliciously tan after a few hours. 

Niall shuffles again. Counts out three cards. Slaps them on the table. 

Jack of Hearts. No good. 

Harry exhales loudly to his right. 

Niall thumbs across his cards - one, two, three - turns them over. 

Eight of Clubs. The hair on the back of Niall’s neck prickles uncomfortably. 

Harry’s throat clicks. Across the room the kitchen tap drips into the empty sink. Two cards stick together when Niall shuffles them between his hands. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he growls. “What the fuck is wrong with these cards?” He throws his deck into the middle of the coffee table and gathers all the cards together. None of them are the same direction, a few crumpling at the corners where they’ve been damp and dried again as he drags them all into a deck again. Harry stares at him, Niall can feel the heat of his eyes as he starts counting them, thumb sticking when they don’t go smoothly. Somewhere, a clock is ticking.

Fifty-fucking-one.

Harry raises his eyebrows when Niall looks up and then straightens his shoulders. Niall feels inexplicable anger rage through him. The cards flex in his sweaty palms and it seems natural to just let them go. 

They catapult out of his hands, fifty one of them going absolutely everywhere. They skate across the glass coffee table, up into the air and scatter out across the floor.

“You’re fucking missing one,” Niall says venomously, like it’s Harry’s fault specifically. 

Harry stares at him unimpressed. “Well, if you didn’t play Fifty-Two Card Pick Up then you wouldn’t have this problem.”

Niall’s shoulders heave. 

“How will you play your solitaire now?” Harry asks, mouth turning sideways. Niall lets the sarcasm wash over him.There’s a bitter satisfaction to getting Harry to bite back -- there always is. Was.

The back of Niall’s thighs stick a bit to the sofa when he stands up, stepping over the splay of cards on the floor to head towards the stairs. 

Harry snorts behind him and makes no move to stop him. And by the time Niall’s turned the corner of the staircase and can see down over the living room he’s gone; the cards left behind him, red and black across the white rug for Niall to clean up later. 

*

He’s still awake when Harry pushes his way into his bedroom that night. The window is open and he’d been listening to the lap of the ocean, hoping for it to lull him to sleep. 

He’s knackered but his brain can’t seem to shut down, the buzzing in his ears and his head making it pound so much that sleep seems forever elusive. There had been a thought, scrolling across the back of his eyelids like ticker tape, just a hazy image of Harry crawling back into his bed tonight. He’d tried to ignore it--there’s no way Harry would be back like a glutton for punishment--but he can’t ignore the rush of relief when the door snicks open. 

His mouth is dry, the last beer he had sitting uncomfortably in his belly. He could piss but he doesn’t want Harry to know he’s still awake. He shutters his eyes, curls his fingers into the soft leg of his boxers and evens out his breathing. 

Harry takes forever to come to bed. He stumbles a bit in the dark, kicking off the trousers he could’ve taken off in the perfectly well lit landing on the other side of the door. He fiddles with something on the bedside table and his necklaces jiggle as he moves about, bends down, pulls at the covers. 

There’s a waft of slightly cooler air as he rearranges the sheets around them, settling against the pillow at the other side of the bed. 

He rolls onto his side again, his back an arm stretch away from Niall, and goes to sleep. Niall presses his lips together, forces a level breath through his nose.

There’s a pang of something inside him, an elastic band reverberating between his lungs. 

Niall wants to touch him, press his hand to the warm skin of his spine, pull him closer. He wants to curl in close until it’s nearly unbearable with sticky heat. He wants to lick the salty skin at the back of Harry’s neck, drag his hand up over his chest until he can thumb against a pert nipple to make him shift in his sleep. Tangle an ankle around his, stretch their legs out together, Harry’s strong muscle pressed against the soft of Niall’s thigh. 

He closes his eyes, feels the world swivel around him for a moment. Harry snuffles and he’s not asleep, no one falls asleep that fast.

“Loved you, you know,” Harry whispers, so quiet that Niall could have imagined it on the breeze coming through the open window. 

Niall’s throat burns at the past tense. 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t think he can. His breathing gives him away though, a sharp inhale through his nose that proves he’s not sleeping. 

He hopes Harry doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t think he can deal with anything more than the taut, tense spread of shoulders in front of him. He couldn’t look into Harry’s glassy eyes in the dim of the room. 

He knows Harry’s not doing this maliciously, that he’s probably been mulling this over for the past few days and wants to finally push them through the giant elephant in the room. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. 

Niall inhales again and tries to not make it sound like a sniff. Harry’s shoulder jerks, like he was going to roll over onto his back and then thought better of it. 

Niall prefers it that way.

*

The sky is too blue to look at, sun just at the corner of his eye. When he sticks his sunglasses on it dulls, turning a yellowing sepia. There’s no clouds, no birds. Nothing but yellow tinged blue and the two fading lines of an aeroplane trail. 

He wonders for a moment where the plane’s going and wishes, chest going tight, that he was on it. Away from here, this odd situation of awkwardness that he’s found himself in. 

But where would he go? The police are clearly in no hurry to wrap up their investigation. He’s still waiting on his replacement passport. He had woken up to an empty bed and when he finally dragged himself downstairs he found that Harry had already been and gone again. 

There was a brand new iPhone propped up against the fruit bowl, shiny in its box and underneath, Harry’s Santander card all wrapped up in a sheet of jagged-edged notebook paper. He’d scribbled the pin on it and then doodled a smiley face on it too and Niall had stared at it, finding the place where he had started to write a longer note and then thought better of it. 

If Harry had given them to him in person, he would’ve refused but the villa is empty except for himself, so kicking up a fuss had seemed pointless. He had taken the phone, plugged it in to charge because he knows his parents must be going spare. It’d already been set up, just one number already stored in his contacts under **H**. 

Niall dips his fingers into the still water of the pool. He’s on one of Harry’s fancy lilos that he had found in the same cupboard where he’d found the mop bucket. It’s a funny shade of sunbleached blue and has a handy pocket for two cool bottles of beer. 

He had blown it up with his mouth until his chest had felt tight and he was dizzy. 

Now he’s out here though, he wishes he hadn’t bothered. Blowing it up had only filled an hour of his time at best and now he’s back to square one, with nothing to do in the too silent house on the edge of an empty beach. 

It’s so quiet that he knows Harry’s behind him before he speaks. He opens his eyes lazily, dropping his chin to his chest to stare at the opposite side of the pool to see him.

“Alright?” he asks, mouth opening of its own accord. Harry hasn’t got glasses on and he can see the squint of his eyes. It’s hot, must be near lunchtime. He’s stopped paying attention to the clock. 

Harry nods once. He’s breathing hard and looks flushed. His hair is pulled up in one of his silly buns that Niall hasn’t seen on him in years. He looks younger like this, hair all pulled back from his face.

“It’s hot, yeah?” Niall asks. Even under the tint of his glasses Niall can see the red on his shoulders and cheeks. 

They haven’t spoken today, Harry was already gone when Niall had woken up. Niall feels a nervous energy filling him up with the urge to speak, just to fill the air between them with meaningless words in case the space is filled with ones that have more depth. 

Harry looks up, hands on his hips, and nods again. Niall wonders if he’s ever going to speak. This quiet streak must be a new thing, normally Harry would talk your ear off, giving you one hundred words when he could’ve told the story in ten. Niall can’t work out if it’s better this way.

His jump is unexpected, water sloshing up at the suddenness of it. Niall’s lilo tilts and he nearly loses a beer bottle overboard. 

Harry pops up a few metres from him, slow grin forming on his face. He looks ridiculous, hair that isn’t trapped behind his hair tie plastered to his forehead. He looks up slowly, wades towards Niall and just before it happens, Niall knows he’s going to tip him. 

It's easy to fall into that old rough and tumble. Niall grapples Harry around the waist, feeling his firm, slippery sides. He must still be hitting the gym. Niall can't say the same about himself; everything he eats still slides off his bones but the beer is starting to gather softly at his gut.

Harry's leg tangles around his knee underwater and it's his weakness, he lets Harry catch him, pull him sideways. He gives into it, head dipping under the water. It's blissfully cool for a moment compared to the blistering heat above.

Harry’s grinning fully when he breaks the surface. Niall reaches up to push his hair away from his forehead. His sunglasses are lost.

“You bastard,” Niall says because it feels right, that’s what you’re supposed to say playfully after a dunking. If it comes out venomously, Harry doesn’t say, he just laughs anyway.

“It was too easy,” Harry shrugs, biceps disappearing under the water. There’s a patch of skin on his shoulder that looks particularly red, Niall wants to rub his hand over it to see if it is as hot as it looks. He blinks water out of his eyes, chlorine and sunscreen making them sting, and  
pushes at Harry’s shoulder, listening to the slap amplified by the water. He reaches down, nipping at Harry’s nipple because he knows Harry’s weakness, just as Harry knows his. 

Harry squawks and brings one hand up to his chest but Niall holds on, twists his nipple a bit with a laugh. He kicks his feet under the water to keep afloat. 

“Fucking hurts,” Harry complains. Niall thinks he wants to tell him his knee hurts but he doesn’t, doesn’t want Harry to know about that if he can help it.

“Get used to it,” Niall says, reaching for the other one. Harry twists away from it, reaches up, water dropping from his elbow to catch Niall’s hand. 

“Fuck--” Harry gasps when Niall takes advantage of the way his body has opened up to go for the other one. He kicks him under the water again, a sharp dig of toes into Niall’s shin that makes him wince before pushing more slowly past his calf. 

Harry grunts and it makes something thrum in Niall’s belly. Niall twists again, just to be a bastard before letting go. Harry grins cheekily at him, breathing hard through his nose. Niall knows that look in his eyes and that if he pressed against him now, he’d feel him hard. 

He smells of cocoa butter from the sun cream he’s been using, it coming off him in waves the longer he stays in water. Niall’s wearing stuff designed for children, factor fifty and water protective so it smells clinical and cheap compared to Harry‘s. 

Harry moves forward, seemingly uncaring about his erection in the tiny shorts he’s wearing as he presses into Niall’s side, his arm moving across his chest. He breathes out near Niall’s ear, a low sound attached to the puff of air. 

Niall shivers, turns it into a twist so he can pretend it’s to buck Harry off his back. Harry presses closer, dragging him through the water. Niall takes a breath, pushes his head back so he can see blue, blue sky and the tracks of another plane before he shoves his arse into the cradle of Harry‘s hips. 

Harry makes another noise and it sounds slightly strangled. He moves his hand down, past Niall’s hip to press against his belly. It feels odd under the water, like they’re floating in some sort of limbo and Niall breathes harshly, chin dipping under the water until it touches his lips. He closes his eyes, allows himself to enjoy it for one blissful moment, before he untangles himself, kicks under the water to put a foot of space between them. He blinks the sun glare out of his eyes. 

“Gonna have to go hunting for my glasses now,” he says, not letting his voice shake. He lifts a hand out of the water to shield the sun from his eyes. Harry smiles at him but Niall can see the glimpse of bewilderment underneath it, like he doesn’t really understand what just happened either. 

“And new beer,” Harry says, lifting a hand to gesture to the upended lilo floating at the side of the pool. 

Niall tips his head to the side. “Think you’ll have to go get me a new one. Also, maybe consider cleaning your pool.”

Harry grins again. “And for that I’m not going to tell you where I have a sexy pair of goggles.”

Niall’s face falls. “Aw, come on. The water stings my eyes.”

Harry laughs and shakes his head, paddling over to the side of the pool. He doesn’t use the steps, just sticks his elbow to the tiled side and drags himself up. Niall watches the water roll off his back, down over the soaked shorts he’s wearing. They cling to him when he stands up, showing off the unmistakable shadow of a bulge, and Niall refuses to blink away. 

His neck presses into the ridge of the pool as he looks up, Harry’s head blocking out the sun for a moment. He squints through one eye to keep watching.

“Good luck,” Harry crows and pads back into the house, wet footprints in his wake. Niall groans for show, just loud enough that Harry can hear before turning back to the pool. The lilo has floated right into the corner and it bobs with the current still rippling through the pool from their tussle. There’s an empty beer bottle bobbing beside and Niall curses the fact that his sunglasses aren’t hollow. 

Usually, he would leave them at the bottom of the pool. He’s got enough of the Ray Ban Spring Summer collection circa 2013 at home to do him the rest of his life but he doesn’t have any of them here. He’s got nothing here. 

He braces himself, takes a few reassuring breaths before diving under the water. His eyes sting when he opens them, water murky as he tries to scan the floor of the pool. There’s a blue light that looks pretty at night time but during the day just highlights how disgusting Harry’s pool actually is. 

His chest starts to ache, his breath all clogged up at the back of his throat. There’s a pressure knitting right between his shoulders so he breathes out slowly, the bubbles escaping through his lips as he fights the urge to inhale. 

He finally sees them under one of the blue lights and he makes for them, squinting through the glare of the light. It feels like he’s going to run of air, bubbles growing thin as he grasps for them, fingers dragging against the slippy bottom of the pool. His nails catch in the grout of the tiles and he cringes, opens his mouth so the last of the air leaves him before his hand finally closes around them. 

He makes for the surface, sun rippling through the water as he gets closer and he can make out the wavy outline of Harry standing at the edge. 

He gasps in a lungful of air as he breaks the surface, shakes out the water from his eyes and pushes back so he’s half floating on his back to look up at Harry. 

“Don’t kill yourself, Christ,” Harry comments, his toes curling over the edge of the pool. Niall’s breathing too hard to really understand what he’s talking about but when he takes a moment he sees the two beers dripping moisture from the icebox in one hand and a spare pair of sunglasses in his other. 

Niall’s stomach swoops and he’s caught between feeling proud of himself and like a childish idiot. He jams the glasses onto his face anyway, water dripping off them. He can hardly see out of them, smeared and dirty the way they are but it makes him feel better when Harry huffs out of a laugh. 

“Suit yourself,” Harry says quietly and sits down at the edge of the pool. He dips his feet in and holds out one of the beers. 

“Hold on,” Niall tells him and backstrokes over to where the lilo is. He rights it, scooping the water out of the cup holder and drags it over towards Harry before he climbs on. He can hear Harry laugh and he wishes there was a more dignified way of climbing onto an inflatable. He knows his arse is in the air, shorts slipping down slightly but he grins over at Harry smugly when he gets on.

“C’mere then,” Harry says and motions for him to come over to the side. Niall uses his hands as oars and gets himself right over to the side, the wet plastic of the lilo squeaking against the ridge of the pool. 

He reaches for the beer but Harry tuts, gives him a look like Niall should know better before he lunges at him, tumbling onto the lilo and making it rock. 

“Shit,” Niall squawks as they unbalance. Harry’s sprawled on top of him and it’s even worse than being in the water with him. Now he’s all half dried, hot skin pressed against Harry’s. His shorts are cool against the top of Niall’s thighs but his chin digs into Niall’s chest, his lips drag against the damp of his collarbone. 

“We’re fine,” Harry reassures him and laughs into his neck again, twisting his body to get comfortable. The lilo groans plasticky below them and Niall hops they don’t capsize. The weight of them is making them dip down, the seat of the lilo below the waterline. 

“Here,” Harry says, still half laughing. He flings an arm off that makes them rock again but curls back in again with the beer. “Perfect!”

“Not fucking perfect,” Niall protests but reaches for the beer anyway. Harry moves again, jostles Niall until he’s lying along side him, skin of his chest pressed hotly against Niall’s side. It’s not entirely comfortable, plastic sticking to his drying skin and Harry dragging one end of the lilo down further than the other. It feels like if Harry moves again he’ll be flung off the other end. 

“Don’t steal my lilo then,” Harry says quietly. Niall shakes his head. 

“There was definitely two in the shed,” he says and feels stupid when he says it. What fucking villa has a shed?

Harry laughs, obviously thinking the same thing. “Yeah, but this one was blown up so well. Such a good set of lungs on you.”

Niall closes his eyes. He isn’t sure how Harry knows he blew it up with his mouth instead of the pump and the knowledge that he’s been caught out burns at the back of his throat. His entire throat feels like sandpaper when he swallows a mouthful of beer. He hisses through his teeth and ignores that Harry’s there waiting for him to speak. 

“Well,” Harry amends and jams his beer bottle between his belly and Niall’s hip. It’s too cool and Niall tries not to jerk away too much in case it unsettles whatever equilibrium they’ve created on the lilo. There’s a fragile equilibrium between the two of them too. 

Harry lifts his now free hand and presses it low against Niall’s chest, just above his stomach. “Maybe not since the accident though, eh?”

Niall hums. It’s hard to keep up with what Harry’s saying.

“The smoke inhalation,” Harry reminds him, hand inching up Niall’s chest.

Niall closes his eyes and hopes Harry can’t see through the lenses of his glasses. He takes a breath and it rattles through his hoarse throat, stings the back of it. Harry’s hand stays where it is. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry asks quietly. “You haven’t said anything since you got here.”

Niall opens his eyes, catches Harry staring and then closes them again. It’s better to be in the dark, sun making the back of his eyelids glow orange rather than see Harry’s concerned face. He remembers that expression from before. 

“Nothing really to say.” Niall’s voice is strained and he hates himself for how his body betrays him. Harry curls in tighter to him, the beer bottle stuck between them. Niall lifts his, drinks half of it as best as he can half lying down like he is and ignores the way it rips down his throat. 

“You--” Harry says quietly and it makes Niall open his eyes, the quiet sincerity in it. “You’ve been having nightmares.”

Niall’s not prepared for that and he jerks physically a bit. Harry curls closer, as if holding on will make Niall more willing to speak. He doesn’t really remember having nightmares at all. 

“I am?” he asks lightly. 

“You talk in your sleep,” Harry says quietly. “You must’ve only started doing it.”

Niall clenches his teeth together. How would Harry know when he’d started doing it? He can feel himself start to get defensive and tries to tamp it down. He curls his hand around his bottle so it doesn’t go into a fist. 

“Cough too,” Harry continues on and from the way his chin is perched on Niall’s shoulder he knows Harry’s looking at him. Niall keeps his eyes closed. “It’s alright. Doesn’t keep me up or anything.”

It’s a lie. Harry’s such a light sleeper that he probably hears every word. It makes Niall feel self-conscious.

“Well,” Niall says and tries to shrug it off. He shrugs physically too, dislodging Harry’s head. He glances at him and sees that he doesn’t look too miffed about it. Harry’s too close anyway, his belly pushing into Niall’s side every time he breathes, his knee digging into his thigh where it’s curled up beside him. 

It’s suffocating, the way his arm is holding him against the warped flat of the lilo. The water makes them bob again and Niall feels a roll of nausea in his stomach. The beer feels heavy on his tongue, a metallic tang and too bubbly on the way down, making him feel uncomfortably bloated. 

“As long as I’m not disrupting your beauty sleep, you sure need it,” Niall says, but it feels too late to be played off as a joke, just a sentence out in the open. Harry makes a noise that could pass as a laugh if Niall was really lenient but other than that it just sounds sad. 

He feels too hot all of a sudden. Baking under the sun and pressed this close to Harry. He takes a breath and shoves himself over the edge of the lilo, breaking whatever balance they had created. 

Harry’s staring at him when he surfaces, gasping for air again. He‘s hard to read behind his sunglasses. His beer is on its side, dripping into the water. Niall doesn’t care where his is. 

“Just take care of those lungs,” is all Harry says before he flops back into the lilo, spreading out and taking up all the space. Niall tries not to cough but he can’t help it. Every rough hack seems amplified. He closes his eyes, rubs at the bridge of his nose where his sunglasses dug in at the impact of the water and kicks over to the side, hoping Harry isn’t watching as he climbs up over the edge. 

He dries himself halfheartedly and leaves the rest to the sun as he flops down onto the sunlounger that he had dragged close to the pool. Harry’s still sprawled out in the pool and it’s making him jittery, like he’s watching him behind his sunglasses when he’s probably not. 

He throws the towel down onto the deck and then regrets it, he could’ve covered himself up somehow with it. It would look awkward if he reached for it again so he goes for the shirt he was wearing earlier, pulling it on instead. He leaves it unbuttoned because it’s hot still and it’s making him not want to wear clothes at all but he can’t help but feel underdressed all of a sudden. 

He settles on the chair, the plastic slats digging into the back of his thighs and he reaches for one of the novels he’s resorted to reading considering they’re now three cards short of a deck after his aborted game of solitaire. Harry been out for groceries, but he’s apparently refusing to buy another pack.

“You don’t look like yourself,” Harry tells him quietly a while later, once he‘s floated back over to Niall‘s side of the pool and he‘s managed to grab hold of the ledge. Niall glances up, his fringe flopping down into his eyes. 

“Either do you,” Niall answers and goes back to staring at the page of his book. He isn’t reading it, not really, he can’t remember what happened in the chapter he read yesterday and he doesn’t really care. He just props it up on his knee and turns the page every so often while his mind slips away into daydreams. “You’ve grown up.”

Harry’s still looking at him in this strange way, eyebrows knitted together like he’s worried about what Niall had just said. “We’ve grown up,” he corrects. 

Niall nods, feeling the back of his neck prickle under his scrutiny. “We have,” he agrees and looks down at his book again. There’s a thumbprint at the bottom of the page from the last person who read it, a smear of oily sunscreen turning the last word into a blur. Niall fits his thumb to it to see if it would fit and wonders whose it is. It’s bigger than his, the smudged shape of a few letters at the edge of his thumbnail. It could be Harry’s. His hand positioned the exact way Niall’s is now, reading the same page by the pool. 

“Niall,” Harry says. When Niall looks up he realises that he must’ve drifted off into his head again, that Harry’d been calling his name for a while. 

“What?” He can’t help the way his tone goes defensive. 

“I said,” Harry says, edging on defensive too. “Do you miss the blond?”

“Oh.” Niall runs a hand through his hair. It’s too shaggy, dry from the salt water and days in the sun. It’s gone frizzy and tangled because he just left it after getting out of the pool. “Nah, it grew out ages ago. Needs a cut though.”

Harry smiles at him softly, eyes raking over his face. Niall scrunches a handful of hair under his fingers self-consciously. He wants to mess it up but it reminds him too much of what Harry used to do when he was nervous too so he keeps his hand still. 

“You could stick it up in a ponytail it’s getting that long,” Harry comments idly and Niall smirks down at him. He looks like a kid like this, hanging onto the side of the pool. 

“Don’t think so,” Niall says and shakes his head, dropping his hand onto his lap. His hair flops into his eyes again. “Couldn’t pull it off.”

Harry makes a dismissive noise and shuffles to the edge of his seat, leans his bony elbows onto the tiled edge, the overspill of the pool sloshing through his arms. He looks over Niall hungrily and Niall can see the plan forming behind his eyes. 

“Don’t be getting any ideas,” Niall says. 

As expected, Harry grins at him mischievously. “Could plait it,” he suggests. Niall starts to laugh. 

“Most definitely not.” Niall sticks his hand into the hair just above his ear. “It’s not _that_ long.”

Harry shrugs nonchalantly and leans back. The lilo wobbles and Harry clenches his hand around the edge, drags himself close again. “Suit yourself.”

Niall looks back down at his book. He’d look ridiculous with his hair in a plait, or pulled back in any way that would fit the length of his hair. 

“You could help me though,” Niall says quietly, hair still pulling at the dry ends of his hair. “Cut the back of it?”

Harry looks at him for a moment, face doing that oddly blank expression that Niall’s seen far too often the past few days. Niall’s heart sinks a little at the apparent rejection of his idea. It would only be something to do this afternoon. If Niall keeps them busy, maybe it won’t slip into awkwardness again. His jitters reappear, making him feel slightly sick. 

“Of course I’ll help,” Harry answers after a beat, leaning forward again. The lilo rears up behind him, another bottle slips into the water but Harry manages to climb out of the pool without tipping himself into it. “I’ll always help.”

Niall swallows and ignores the weight intended behind the words. He sets the book down, page lost to the breeze anyway and stands up. 

“Let’s go then,” Niall murmurs. He gets the overwhelming urge to reach down and pull Harry up by the hand and he reaches out on instinct. Harry glances at his hand before looking up at him wide-eyed. Niall snatches his hand back, immediately regretting it because Harry’s face drops and he becomes all business, face setting in that blank look as he gets to his feet and leads him into the house. 

“Bathroom would probably be easier to clean up,” he says as they walk into the air conditioned house. Niall nods, even though Harry doesn’t see him, and follows him up the stairs to the main bathroom. 

It’s larger than the ensuite, messier too because Niall hasn’t been using it. It’s all the way across the upstairs corridor, closer to Harry’s room than his own so there’d been no point. 

A huge window opens up onto the ocean, sun off in the distance so there’s plenty of light streaming in as Harry searches for a pair of scissors. 

“How short are we going?” Harry asks over his shoulder, his hand on the handle for the mirrored cupboard above the double sink. Niall shrugs, sticking his hand into his hair again. 

“Not too short,” Niall says when Harry turns back to the cupboard. He catches his eyeline in the mirror for a moment, Harry’s hand hesitating before he opens it. He looks washed out in the reflection, eyes stark against his skin with Niall hovering over his shoulder until the door swings open and Niall can’t see himself anymore.

As Harry hunts for a comb Niall glances around. There’s a lead for an electric razor plugged into the wall and a pair of strengtheners on the windowsill that obviously don’t belong to Harry, his hair frizzing out into curls in the heat. Next to it, a charger for a toothbrush when there’s two disposable in the cup between the sinks. His and Hers bath towels slung over the steel rod on the wall. Niall blinks. His and _His_.

Harry makes a noise of approval once he’s found all his equipment, laying it out across the counter between the sinks. He pushes a bundle of towels off the stool that’s sitting near the window.

“Sit,” Harry says, turning around to face him. He blows a breath of air out of his mouth to shift the hair sticking to his own forehead. Niall does as he’s told and plonks himself down on the stool Harry’s kicked at him. 

It’s quiet up here - just the whir of the extractor fan - as Niall takes a breath and listens to it whistle through his nose. 

Harry touches his shoulder first. Just a brush of fingers across the skin where his t-shirt is slipping. It feels like he’s touching him for the first time even though they had wrestled barely an hour ago. 

“Do you want to take this off?” Harry asks him, plucking at the material. Niall nods, reaching up to grab the collar and pull it over his head. Harry’s fingers graze the bare skin of his shoulder right where it’s warm, making Niall shiver. 

He stills, locking up, but Harry does it again, fingertips dragging across the sensitive skin at the back of his neck before he pushes his fingers into his hair. That’s when Niall fully relaxes into it, lets his head lean back into the cradle of Harry’s palm. He doesn’t mean to sigh but he can’t help it, Harry’s fingers pressing firmly into his scalp. 

It feels like the taut tension in his skull the past few days is ebbing away, Harry’s hands kneading gently until his thumb presses in just behind his ear. There’s a mirror, all the way through the bathroom door and across the corridor. It’s too far away to see their expressions but Niall can make out their outlines, the way Harry looms behind him.

“Fuck,” Niall groans and Harry laughs softly above him. His shoulders try to lock up again but Harry presses down on the flesh at the top of his spine and Niall melts backwards, straight into Harry’s chest because there’s no back to the stool. “That feels so good,” Niall admits. 

“Magic hands,” Harry says and even though Niall can’t see him, he can feel the way Harry wiggles his hands against his skin before he rakes his fingers through Niall’s hair again. 

It’s gentler than he expected, Harry’s fingers tracing down his hairline and round to the parting at the front. He combs through Niall’s tatty hair as carefully as he can, smoothing out his hair and dragging the comb through it. It’s soothing, Niall could fall asleep like this, Harry’s gentle hands keeping him propped up. 

“Here we go,” Harry says cheerfully, but there’s a long moment before the loud sound of scissors snipping through a chunk of Niall’s hair. 

“Oh, God,” Niall groans and lets his eyes shut so he can’t see the door to the bathroom anymore. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” 

Harry laughs behind him. “Yeah, probably.”

He cuts another piece and another until Niall can feel the tickle of hair dropping against the bent slope of his neck. Harry’s hand is gentle as he guides his head so he can reach every bit of Niall’s hair, fingertips warm against his forehead when he makes him tip his head back. 

“Hiya.” Harry grins when Niall lets his eyes flutter open. He’s upside down, sun catching under his jaw and he looks like a maniac with a pair of scissors in his hand but Niall’s breath catches anyway, heart hammering in his chest. Harry gives him a quiet smile. As if this is something they do all the time. 

“Hi,” Niall mutters. Harry’s thumb presses to the side of his eye. 

“Close ’em,” he orders gently and Niall lets his eyes flutter shut again. Harry’s thumb pauses at the corner of his eye before it swipes over his eyelid, slow and warm until it reaches the bridge of his nose. Niall takes a breath and tries to ignore how his chest heaves with it. He feels stretched out, pulled open. 

Harry sheers across his fringe and the ends of his hair fall over his face, fanning out over his cheeks, ticklish and soft. Harry brushes them off with his thumbs, both of them pressing gently at his cheeks, fingers splayed on either side of his face. 

Niall lets his eyes flutter open again and Harry smiles at him shyly, one side of his mouth turning into a dimple. 

“Hiya,” he says again. This time it’s hushed. Niall opens his mouth, he wants to say something back but can’t find the words; they feel like they’re all trapped up inside him. What could he say? The only things rolling around his head are -- _fuck your eyes are so pretty this close_ and _I’m still in love with you_.

Niall flails his arms up in an effort to get away, feet skittering on the tiled floor as the stool rocks. Harry steps back, eyes widening and Niall clears his throat, pushes his hand nervously into his shorn locks. There’s not much hair to ruffle there anymore. He takes a deep breath and tries not to overreact even though all he can hear is the echo of Harry’s voice. The past tense. 

He shakes his head again and spins to look at the mirror so he’s not facing Harry directly. 

“It looks different,” Niall says once he’s appraised his hair and Harry makes a frustrated noise. 

“Bad different?” he asks quietly. 

Niall flicks his eyes up to meet Harry’s over his shoulder in the reflection of the mirror. 

“Just different,” Niall says, just as quiet. He thinks about it for a moment before adding, “New different.”

Harry nods his head once, looking happier. “New different. I think we can work with that.”

Niall smiles, pulls at the longer fringe at the front of his face. He could style it up in one of those quiffs he used to wear, or let it flop down the way he’s been wearing his hair for the past few months. Either way - it looks a lot better than it had before. 

Harry claps him on the shoulder, brushes his palms down over his skin to get rid of the rest of the hair there and Niall gives Harry another encouraging grin in the mirror and knows he doesn’t have to say his thanks out loud. 

*

“Have you ever even used this?” Niall asks when he opens the steel cover to the barbeque. Harry shrugs and sinks into one of the wicker chairs across from him. He slings one leg up over the arm and it opens his body up deliciously. Niall can see the pale skin of the inside of his thigh -- right where the sun hasn’t reached. 

He turns back to his steaks, presses his thumb into one to feel the room temperature coolness of the meat, spices from his rub coating his thumb. He’d promised to do dinner to pay Harry back for the haircut. Harry had laughed him off but Niall found a pair of steaks at the back of the fridge and got to work anyway. 

The grill fires up beautifully, nearly as good as his old one. 

He isn’t sure if it’s still there in his old back garden. It’s probably rusted beyond use by now if Willie hadn’t moved it before he left. Maybe it’s at his house with Jordan now, Niall’s not sure -- he hasn’t visited there either. 

“This is what I miss when I‘m on tour,” Harry says, leaning back so Niall can see the long column of his throat. 

“Barbeque?” he asks, trying to deflect the panic ricocheting through his gut. 

Harry snorts. “No.” He takes a mouthful of beer and stretches again. He’s like a cat out in the sun. “Home cooked meals. Catering just isn’t the same.”

Niall nods in agreement and sets the steaks on the grill. Harry hums at the sizzle they make. Niall grins at him and heads back towards the house. 

The bowl of salad that Harry threw together feels cold in his hands. He stands there to collect himself, just inside the door where he knows Harry can’t see him. He can’t really explain it, that sense of foreboding that’s building in his gut. Harry seems so chatty compared to the past few days that Niall’s spent with him. 

“There you are,” Harry says when he comes to the doorway. Niall flushes, he looks like an idiot standing in the middle of the kitchen with a bowl of salad in his hands. “What are you doing?” 

“Trying to figure out what all this superfood shit is in the salad,” Niall says because he catches a glimpse of a slice of slightly squashed avocado amongst something that looks suspiciously like green banana peel. “Why? What are you doing?” 

Harry snorts. “Getting more beer.”

Niall nods and sidesteps him, slipping back out towards the grill where the steaks are browning nicely. He sets the salad down beside the plates on the side counter of the barbeque and flips the steaks, listening to the crackle when the fat starts to roll off them. 

“And none of it is officially a superfood,” Harry says when he steps back outside. He’s put on music somewhere in the living room, something floaty that just about drowns out the faint thump coming from Ushuaia across the bay. The fairy lights twinkle behind his head, reflecting back on the dark glass window. 

“You’ve been living in LA for too long,” Niall tells him with a grin as Harry settles back down in his wicker chair. Harry shrugs. 

“Feels like home,” he says and he’s got that tone back again, like there’s something more he’d like to say. Niall swallows and focuses on the food. 

Niall’s a bit envious of him; he’s not sure where home is anymore. London doesn’t feel like it, he doesn’t fit there anymore. All it holds is memories of a better time. He doesn’t want to see the statues gathering dust on his mantel piece, wallpaper fading around the frames of his plaques on the wall. It feels extravagant to own a house in the suburbs of London and not step foot in it for over a year but he can’t bring himself to go back. 

He prods the steaks again. 

London would’ve felt like home if Harry had stayed. He knows it would’ve -- that had been the plan. He had even picked out new furniture that would suit Harry’s tastes better. It’s still sitting bubble-wrapped in his garage as far as he knows. Not that he particularly cares what happens to it now. 

He pinches a steak a little harder than he has to, hands tightening around the handles of his prongs and slaps it down onto a plate. Harry smiles at him, eyes narrowing a little that tells Niall that maybe he’s not being as calm on the outside as he thinks. 

“Salad?” Harry asks, sticking a fork into the bowl. 

“Yeah.” Niall nods belatedly -- Harry’s already dishing it out. 

“I wish I could spend more time there,” Harry says after a bit. Long enough for Niall to have cut into his steak, picked through the salad for a safe-looking piece of lettuce and shoved it all into his mouth. He nearly chokes on his food. Harry appraises him quietly and when he deems that he won’t have to use the Heimlich he keeps going. “Ten years of touring starts to get old.”

Niall chews slowly. 

“It’s lonely when you do it on your own,” Harry says and shoves a chunk of beef into his mouth. This time Niall catches the dig in it. Harry smiles innocently at him. 

Niall swallows. “You’ve got a good team though? Plenty of people about you.” 

It’s true, though. That’s the sad bit. Half of their old team went with him. And all the exciting new people from the LA office, eyes bright for Harry. 

Harry nods, cheeks bulging. Niall rubs his hands against the shorn edges of his hair, just below his ear. 

“Yeah,” Harry says once his mouth is empty. He keeps his eyes on his steak as he cuts through it. Niall can hear the scrape of his knife against the plate. “That was nice. Keeping in touch with everyone.”

Niall’s not very hungry anymore. It feels like he’s eating rubber. 

“Familiar,” Niall says lightly. Harry’s eyes narrow across the deck at him and Niall finally knows for sure that this is going to end up an argument -- Harry’s itching for it.

“Like the band never even ended,” Harry says. It stings but Niall can’t look away. He keeps his gaze locked in Harry’s and puts the last of his salad into his mouth, clears his plate. It tastes like grass but he chews through it, not giving Harry the satisfaction of spitting it out. 

Harry smiles at him and if he hadn’t just said what he’d said, Niall never would’ve thought anything about it. 

“I just never thought it would be you holding out on a reunion,” Harry says. “Thought you’d be first one saying yes.” There it is. Niall’s knife scrapes loudly over his plate. 

“Why should I?” Niall asks and immediately regrets it. Harry’s smile twists off his face. 

“Why aren’t you?” Harry asks instead.

“Well, why are you doing it? You don’t need the money. You certainly don’t need the publicity,” Niall turns the question back to him, biting his tongue on saying _like the rest of them do._

The look Harry shoots him tells Niall that he didn’t bite his tongue hard enough. 

“I miss you -” Harry says. Niall’s heart stops. “-guys.”

Niall inhales sharply and looks at the smear of grease on his plate. The oil from the salad dressing. 

“Oh, and there’s no one on the road with you now?” Niall asks instead. 

Harry’s calculating look is back. “On tour?” he asks nonchalantly. “Or on holiday?” 

Niall pushes the fat around his plate. He’s not playing this game.

“You must never get a moment alone,” Niall says, When he glances up, Harry’s smiling back. Except Niall can see the forced grin in it, the same way his cheeks are starting to smart from how tense he is holding his own mouth. 

“Never a dull moment,” Harry says flatly, reaching for his plate as he gathers them together, unfolding himself from the chair and walking back towards the house. There’re creases in the soft skin of his thighs from the wicker. Niall wants to run his fingers over them. 

He tuts at himself, forces himself to look away from the doorway where Harry’s disappeared. He looks out at the dark sky instead, the moon high up and bright. 

He feels full but it’s not satisfying. His dinner sits uncomfortably in his belly. 

There’s jealousy there, burning through his gut at the fact that Harry’s still on tour, still having the time of his life. And anger if he’s not making the most of it. If Harry had asked, Niall would’ve gone with him. He’d have watched from the side of the stage whenever Harry wanted him to. Niall twists the bottle of beer in his hand, downs the rest of it through the skin-warm opening of the bottle. It’s flat. 

“I’m going to bed.” Harry’s standing in the doorway. Niall nods and pulls himself to his feet. He should sleep too. If he drinks anymore he’ll just get melancholy.

He leaves the lights on as he trails after Harry, up the stairs and to the room. Harry walks on in and Niall has to take a moment to figure out if it pisses him off or if he likes it. He’s just confused. 

They’ve not done this. Gone through the motions of getting ready to bed together like this. Not in years anyway. 

Niall pulls off his shirt, greasy from the grill and throws it somewhere on the floor. At the other side of the bed, Harry’s doing the same, peeling off layers of clothes until he’s down to his boxers. 

Niall tries not to stare as Harry goes to brush his teeth. The impressions from the wicker are still there, faint and pink at the back of his thighs. Niall clears his throat. He feels a bit fuzzy, the taste of beer heavy at the back of his throat. He could brush his teeth beside him, squeeze in at the sink together. Harry would move his arm to the other side of the sink, holding him in against it, chest to back until Niall would turn and they’d kiss, pushing minty foam into each other’s mouth. 

Niall blinks. It’s not a fantasy. It’s a memory from another time. He gets into bed, forgetting about brushing his teeth altogether. 

“Night,” Harry says quietly once they’ve crawled into bed. He’s lying opposite him tonight, face tight. He doesn’t look like he’ll sleep like this. 

Niall feels hollow. There’s something stagnant between them, neither of them brave enough to just blurt it out and clear the air. Instead, Niall stays quiet, staring at the white of Harry’s eyes until they blur out and he’s gone. 

*

Harry’s not there in the morning, the rest of the sheets cool. Niall stretches out across them, feels a faint thump in his head still that makes him just want to curl back into sleep. 

There’s a murmur of voices downstairs filtering through the open bedroom door and Niall’s not sure what time it is -- it couldn’t be that late in the day.

He drags himself out of bed, just in case Harry has a visitor or his guests have came back to the house for some reason. He desperately wants to know who was staying with Harry because he knows there’s more to the story than Harry’s letting on. 

He drags a shirt over his shoulders and creeps out of the bedroom running a hand through his hair, making it look more tidy. But once he gets to the top of the stairs he wishes he hadn’t bothered. It’s only Willie.

“Hey,” Niall says and walks down the stairs in his bare feet. Willie look up at him from where he’s loitering awkwardly in the foyer. Harry’s standing beside him, hair a bird’s nest.

“Thought I’d come to see you before we left,” Willie tells him with a small smile and Niall feels a throb of guilt. Niall's shoved the new phone into a drawer, along with his tattered wallet and the credit card but hasn't gone near it since. 

“You doing alright?” Willie asks him and Niall nods, even though his head feels too big for his skull, like it could burst through bone and dribble out his ears. His throat is still aching too. His voice a croaking constant reminder of how sore it is.

“What about you?” Niall deflects the question back, reaching out to brush his fingertips across the yellowing bruise on his cheek. Niall hasn’t been so lucky -- the bruises on his face are still a smudge of black. 

“Fine, just glad to be getting home,” Willie mutters and dodges away from him, just as uncomfortable with people fussing over him as Niall is. “Speaking of, do you want to come with us?”

Niall pauses. Over his shoulder, Niall can see the unopened padded envelope sitting on the ledge, his dad’s untidy scrawl on the cover and he knows his passport is in there. He could go. As much as he thought about wanting to be home, he’s not quite sure where that would be. The image in his head is blurring away from his old sofa and the rugby shirts by the telly, empty house and echoing hallways into something more like a _feeling_. He wants someone there as he turns the corner into the kitchen, wants a weight on the other side of the mattress. Wants someone like --

Niall clears his throat abruptly, relishing in the burn. 

“I should probably stay,” Niall says and refuses to turn his head. Harry’s off in the kitchen somewhere but the place is entirely open plan so he’s sure he’s heard. He feels his cheeks burn at the mere thought. 

Willie‘s gaze softens. “You can stay with us if you want? If that’s what you’re worried about?” 

Niall shakes his head. As much as he loves Willie and his family, he doesn’t want that either. “Nah,” Niall says. “It’s fine.”

Willie nods and then reaches for a hug that Niall goes to gratefully. 

“You sure you’re doing the right thing?” Willie asks into his ear. 

Niall pulls back to look at him. “What do you mean?” 

“Just --” He can hear Willie take a sharp breath and Niall rears back to give him a perplexed look.

“Just look after yourself,” Willie tells him, pulling him in with a hand cupped at the nape of his neck. 

“Willie?” Niall asks him, arms limp by his sides this time. He hears Willie’s responding sigh in his ear before he pulls back from the half hug. 

Willie pulls a face, eyes flicking over Niall’s shoulder to where Harry’s probably still hanging about. “This seems a bit soon, that’s all. Just shacking up with Harry. Look, I get it. You went through a trauma and you want to be close to someone but --” Willie heaves a sigh. “Just don’t get yourself more hurt.”

Niall doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Willie’s got it so wrong but there’s beads of truth there. Deep down he’s probably right. 

“Nothing’s going on between us,” Niall tells him, because it’s the truth. It’s the only thing he can say with conviction. Willie gives him an unimpressed look. 

“I know you too well for this,” Willie tells him. “There’s always something going on between you two.”

Niall shakes his head. There isn’t. There can’t be when you hardly talk to one another. He thinks of Harry across the bed and closes his eyes. It’s pathetic but he can’t back down now, not when Willie is saying all this stuff. He feels the need to prove him wrong. 

“Ok,” Willie says and takes a step back. His bruise catches the light and it’s sickening. “Keep me in the loop, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Niall nods. “Look, it’s only going to be a few days. I’ll sort the stuff out with the police and then head home.”

Willie surveys him without another word and reaches for the doorknob. Niall wants to shout after him, tell him that he’s not staying for _Harry_ but he can’t, his feet are stuck to the ground. 

Behind him, the toaster pops and Harry’s buttering toast by the time he gets to the kitchen. He doesn’t look up, just keeps carefully buttering, spreading it right to the corners with a careful twist of his wrist. 

He doesn’t say anything and Niall doesn’t know what to say either. So he just. Doesn’t. 

* 

Niall’s stretched out across the deck, wood flat against his back when Harry kicks him with the side of his foot. “Fancy a walk?” 

Niall looks up at him. There’s stubble growing in underneath his chin, the side of his neck growing red where he’s missed a bit with sun cream. He’s gripping two bottles of water, condensation dripping over his knuckles. 

He knows he probably shouldn’t. Harry’s in a testy mood and it won’t take much to push him over the edge. Both of them. 

“Come on,” Harry cajoles, shoving his feet into a pair of flip flops that were under the wicker seat. The fairy lights are still on from last night, obsolete in the bright sun. “I haven’t explored around here properly.”

“How come?” Niall asks sceptically. 

Harry shrugs. “Spent most of my time here in the town,” Harry admits and sets one of the bottles of the water down. He pauses, bites his lip. “My friend knows a few places to hang out.”

Niall nods. Harry’s mysterious _friend_. He wants to ask _who_ but that didn’t really go well last time. 

“Coming?” Harry asks, holding a hand out. Niall glances at it and nods again before the silence stretches out too long. He breathes in as Harry hauls him to his feet, blames the suddenness of it for his headrush. Harry’s hand is slightly sweaty, warm as he squeezes around Niall’s fingers. Niall grips back for a moment before letting his hand go limp. Harry gives him another look before he grabs the bottle of water and makes off towards the end of the garden. 

Niall can’t see any other flip flops so he follows him out onto the deck barefoot. The sun is blazing, making Niall squint a bit at the glare even with his sunglasses on. He follows Harry around the pool and down through the patch of dry grass at the bottom of the garden. There’s a row of sandblasted stones that edge the grass, a clear mark before they step onto the beach. 

The incline isn’t that steep but Niall walks down it sideways anyway. Harry grins at him but doesn’t laugh. Niall feels the silence thicken between them, keeping them sandwiched together even though there’s a few metres of sunshine between them. The beach is empty, white sand stretching as far as Niall can see along the bay. There’s a few sun loungers, the red of a parasol in the distance, miles of clear blue water. It’s the first Saturday in July, Niall doesn’t understand how it can be so quiet.

“Where did you find this place?” Niall asks. “There’s not a tourist in sight.”

“It’s a private beach,” Harry replies, the unspoken edge of _duh_ hanging between them.

Niall raises his eyebrows even though Harry’s not looking at him anymore, head bowed to watch as his feet slide on the soft sand. He’s got that embarrassed look about him, the same one he got when he showed Niall around his mansion in LA the first time, or when he’d kissed him against the half-finished kitchen cabinets on a rainy London Saturday when Niall had asked him how much it had cost. Harry bites his lip and Niall knows there’s a part of him bursting to show it off. 

It’s suddenly clear that Harry _owns_ the place. Niall feels marginally better about the untidiness of the villa, now that he knows that it’s mainly Harry’s mess.

“So how much of it is yours?” Niall asks. Harry glances up at him sheepishly, caught out that he’s just bought a beach house on a whim. Niall snorts, he’s still so easy to read. 

“Um, I’m not sure,” Harry shrugs and plods on through the sand. “Until at least the next house.” He points up to the villa they’re approaching. “But I don’t think anyone will mind that we’re walking up their beach.”

Niall nods and keeps going. He can feel the sun beating down on him, the sweat gathering under the collar of his -- _Harry’s_ \-- t-shirt. 

“You haven’t bought any ridiculous properties then?” Harry asks lightly but there’s something else underneath, a desperate edge to learn all about him again. It’s slightly jarring, that Harry doesn’t automatically know all about Niall’s impulse buys anymore. He’d been there when Niall had signed the paperwork for his house in London, encouraged him to buy his Land Rover when he’d barely passed his test, was slumped over in the bunk next to him when Niall had splurged on the most expensive set of golf clubs he could own. 

“Actually,” Niall answers with a twisted mouth. “ I, um, bought a farm in Ireland.”

Harry laughs, a little shocked laugh that slips out of his mouth. “A farm? What are you going to do with that?” 

Niall shrugs. He hasn’t even been out to see it since he’s bought it. All he knows is that it’s got a million-pound milking shed that he’ll never use and a grey squirrel infestation. 

“I was gonna hide away, I think,” Niall finds himself answering instead, deciding to just give in, give Harry what he wants. Harry’s head turns to look at him but it’s Niall’s turn to watch his feet sink into the sand. “But it’s too empty.” Niall laughs but it’s bitter, leaves his mouth sour. 

When he glances up he catches Harry’s sidelong glance. He purses his lips together and quells the defensive blurt of words building in his gut. He’s brought this upon himself. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. 

“Are you going to head back there?” Harry asks lightly but Niall can hear the more serious question in his tone, underneath the way he’s starting to breathe a bit more heavy. "When you go back?" Niall shrugs again, catches his breath. Walking across sand is harder than it looks and Harry’s set up an unrelenting pace. His knee aches at the softness of the ground underneath them. 

“I’m sure I could find a few sheep to shear,” Niall answers, deflecting the look Harry gives him with a wan smile. It feels fake against his teeth. He’s still on edge, ready to defend everything he’s done in the space between last seeing Harry. It doesn’t feel very impressive, not compared to Harry and his lonelytour. 

“I could write,” Niall finds himself saying. Like that’s a more plausible answer. 

He won’t. 

But Harry doesn‘t need to know that. 

Niall laughs to himself. “I could turn one of the rooms into a little makeshift studio, you never know.” He won't do that either but it's more impressive than nothing. He swallows through the ache in his throat and wonders if he could even make it work if he can't sing.

“Hey,” Harry says, spinning quickly so he’s tramping through the sand backwards. He raises his hand, each one curled around a bottle of water still so he can’t hold them palm open. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s cool, the farm is cool.”

Niall doesn’t quite believe the conviction in his voice. That sly tone is back, licking around every word Harry says. He forces himself to take his words for face value and feels his shoulders relax. He’s wound up, baking in the sun. Harry’s doing his best to take advantage of that, prodding him until he’ll burst.

“What are you going to do with your villa anyway?” Niall asks him back. He can’t help himself, partly just to get the last word in. If Harry’s itching, he’ll scratch it. 

Harry’s turned round again, walking up the beach in front of him so Niall can only see the slope of his shoulders under his thin shirt. 

“Get a suntan,” Harry answers flippantly, barely looking over his shoulder. 

Niall huffs. It’s not the argument he’d been poking for. Niall unclenches his hands, looks down at the stretch of his fingers before he pushes his fingers together, listening for the satisfying crack of his knuckles. 

Harry tuts. Niall does it again to annoy him but they don’t make a loud enough sound. Or Harry ignores him, he doesn’t know what’s worse. 

“Hey,” Harry says. They’ve veered slightly up the beach where the ground is harder, Niall’s feet itch from the patches of dry grass amongst the sand but his knee appreciates it. “I’m sure you could turn the farm into like, a project? Like in The Notebook, paint it all up, make it look good.”

Niall clenches his teeth. Harry hasn’t even seen his house, it could be brand spanking new for all he knows. Niall knows he’s overthinking but the assumption it’s a shithole is irritating. 

“You could be on Grand Designs or something!” Harry suggests.

Niall laughs, but the anger bubbling in his belly makes it hollow. He stares at the yellow grass in front of him. “Don’t need to be on any more telly, Harry.”

Harry’s shoulders shrug before he speaks quietly. “Fair enough. Just thought it would something to fill your time.”

Niall swallows. It’s not as satisfying as he thought it would be. Doesn’t feel like they’ve cleared the air at all. It just feels like he’s said something wrong and he wishes Harry would turn around again so he could see his expression. 

Harry cuts into the soft sand again, striding down the beach towards the shore. Niall stumbles to catch up with him. 

“Hey,” Niall calls. He hates that he has to ask him, hates that it makes him appear weak. “Slow down a bit.”

“I think I’d like a place like that,” Harry says, keeping his pace. “Get away from everything from time to time. A project would be nice.”

“Don’t you have plenty of them?” Niall asks before he can help himself and he hopes it doesn’t sound as bitter to Harry as it did to himself. He feels shit throwing Harry’s words back at him but he wants to hit wherever he can. It feels like he's always at an event, his name popping up on the sidebar of any news websites he risks a glance at to get the football scores on a Saturday. “Too busy to spend any time at home fixing up houses.” 

He’s watching his feet so doesn’t realise he’s about to walk bang smack into Harry until he does. 

“Shit,” Niall apologises and lifts an arm to steady himself. Harry grips at his bicep. “Sorry.”

Harry keeps his arm there and it’s sticky they’re pressed so close. 

“Harry,” Niall says slightly breathlessly and now that they’re stationary he realises how quickly they had been walking. Niall can feel the wet of Harry’s sweat against his skin. It sticks to his palms, makes him shiver. 

“It was ending, Niall, it was coming to an end anyway,” Harry says. Niall feels his stomach turn to dread. 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Niall says and tries to twist out of Harry’s grip. Niall’s feet slip in the sand. Harry’s hand tightens around Niall’s arm. “I get it, Harry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did,” Harry says easily and it’s so hard to work out how angry Harry is when he’s in one of these moods. Niall can’t meet his eyes, can’t see where he is on the frown meter. “You were fine with this when it all happened, what’s wrong with it now?” 

Niall closes his eyes and tries not to think about it at all. That’s been his strategy for the past while. 

“I _am_ fine with it,” Niall tells him, eyeing a particularly blue patch of sky past Harry’s shoulder. “I’ve had a while to get over it, haven’t I?” 

He feels Harry sigh, can nearly feel the way his chest deflates with it. Niall hadn’t meant to sound so bitter but he can’t help the way he feels. 

“Doesn’t sound like you’re over it,” Harry snarks. Niall glares at him. His head is pounding, he hadn’t realised as he was walking. 

“Why’d you run away then?” Harry asks when he doesn’t bite. Niall knows that Harry’s switched track now, that he’s not really talking about the band at all. “Why won’t you come back?”

Niall’s head spins. “I didn’t,” Niall says before he can help himself. “I wasn’t the one who --”

He cuts himself off before he can put his foot in it any more. He gives a rough cough. 

“Niall,” Harry says in a quiet tone that doesn’t sound too quiet at all, fingers flexing around Niall‘s arms. It’s nice, under different circumstances Niall would lean into his embrace. But he can’t now. There’s something more ominous lacing between them now. 

“Look,” Niall says sharply, he takes a bracing breath and it sounds choked in the silence around them. He twists out of Harry’s grip for good then, stoops down to grab a bottle of water where Harry had dropped them. It’s covered in sand, stuck to where it was still wet but Niall screws off the lid and gulps at it anyway, swallowing past the grit on his lips. It doesn't help the tickle in his throat.

“Niall,” Harry says again, softer this time but Niall doesn’t acknowledge it. He stares at the hazy horizon, blurred a tinted sepia behind his lenses. 

“We’ll head back yeah?” Niall asks and he’s glad his throat doesn’t sound tight anymore. “Think I fancy a siesta.”

He turns around, ignoring Harry’s searching gaze, his aviators pushed up into his fringe. The beach looks the same from whatever way he looks at it and he has no idea what the back of Harry’s villa looks like, no point on the beach to mark it from the others so he just starts walking and hopes for the best.

His eyes start to sting, from the strain he tells himself, and the grass they’ve tramped through even though it’s half dead and brittle, pollen well and truly sapped out of it.

He doesn’t want to talk about it and he doesn’t want to think about. 

Doesn’t want to remember how Harry’d told him all about how he was being signed on nearly immediately. How he’d asked Niall if he minded postponing their big holiday at the end of the tour because Harry was going on a writing retreat. How he didn’t ask if Niall minded that he didn’t put his house in LA up for sale like they discussed or if it was okay that he shipped the last of his crap that had been ‘temporarily’ stored in Niall’s house over to America. How after a few weeks he heard less and less from him until Harry’s number had changed and Niall hadn’t gotten the familiar text from him - _new digits, H_ \- or how the first time he’d heard his voice in nearly a month was across the crystal clear digital radio in his car one morning. 

He’d sat at a red light until it turned green, amber and red again listening to him laugh along with Grimmy about some party they’d been to last night together. In London. A mile away from where Niall’s clogging up Friday morning traffic by not moving at a green light. He had sickened himself, looped round to the BBC studios before he could help himself and drove at a snail’s pace past the hoard of girls grouped outside the door, rolling his window down to hear the chants of _Harry, Harry, Harry_ before he went onto the Easyjet website and booked the first flight out of London. He didn’t even go back to the house, just headed straight to the airport.

Niall stops short in the middle of the beach and puts the heel of his hand to his eye. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. He hasn’t thought of that day in the car for a while now. 

He can still hear the opening chords to Harry’s first solo single. The progression of them haunting and beautiful. Niall had taught him those chords.

He snaps his eyes open and trudges on ahead.

It’s easier once they pass the red parasol and turn the slight corner of the beach. Niall can make out the white wash of the house and his towel hanging over the back balcony. He starts up the slope, follows the tracks they had made earlier in the sand with his toes curled against the incline. His vision is still swimmy, everything going a shimmery blur in the sun. He misjudges his step and goes down easily, hands going out to save him. Niall judders, his knee clicking uncomfortably with the suddenness. He grips a handful of dry grass, brittle edges tearing into his palm but manages not to properly fall. His toe sinks into the loose sand, hits something jagged. Niall cringes, forces himself to take a breath and realises how out of breath he had been. He doesn’t want Harry to see how ill he’s suddenly feeling.

“Fuck sake,” Harry laughs behind him but there’s something off about it. He brings a hand up to steady Niall’s elbow, thumb digging in too tight. “Trying to put Bear Grylls to shame?” 

Niall glances round at him and sees his expression, the forced way his lips are curved into a smile and the disbelieving look in his eyes. His vision tilts uncomfortably and Niall gets a wave of prickling heat rolling over his skin. He forces a grimace onto his face. 

“Just slipped,” Niall tells him unnecessarily. 

“Should wrap you in bubble wrap,” Harry comments as Niall rights himself and steps over the line of rocks at the bottom of the garden. The pavement feels hot on his bare feet, hotter than the sand. He quickens his step, Harry close on his heels. 

“Don’t think you need to do that,” Niall tells him but can’t quite get the jokey tone into his voice like Harry can. His fingers bite into the bottle of water, plastic crumbling slightly under the pressure. 

The house feels refreshingly cool when they get inside and into the shade. Niall takes a breath, lets his eyes adjust to the dim inside. He heads straight for the kitchen, their dishes from breakfast in the sink. Steaks and salad that feels like hours ago. Saliva floods the back of his mouth.

The water doesn’t look crystal clear when he runs the tap over a glass but he brings it to his mouth anyway. He still feels woozy and he tries to blink through it, head starting to throb at the effort.

“You’ll be sick,” Harry says and when Niall risks a glance in his direction he can just about see the way he’s twisted his face into a grimace. Niall shrugs, closes his eyes against the disorientating blur across his vision and glugs it down anyway. It tastes a bit salty but it’s cooler than the bottle he had his hand wrapped around the whole way up the beach. 

“I might head for that nap,” Niall says, fighting down a gag. He’s starting to get the faintly familiar feeling of panic ratcheting up his gut and that’s the only reason why he admits that maybe the walk out in the sun was a little beyond his means still. He grits his teeth against another roll of nausea and heads towards the stairs. “Get proper rested up. Doctor’s orders.”

Harry’s expression tells Niall that he doesn’t believe him but he doesn’t make any more protest when Niall backs towards the stairs. It makes Niall ease up a bit, the fact that Harry thinks he’s just trying to get away from the conversation. He’ll take the small mercy, no matter what it might mean later. 

“See you later,” Niall says, voice strained. Harry nods, turns back towards the patio doors so Niall can’t see his face again. 

It’s a relief when he gets to his room, the blind still down from this morning. It’s dim and he makes his way across the room to the bed without tripping over the rug like Harry seems to do every night. The pillow is cool against his overheated face when he lies down across the mess of sheets - head pounding and knee aching - to fall asleep.

*

It’s dark when he wakes up. 

His mouth feels like it’s been full of cotton wool, dry as anything as he tries to swallow. He’s still above the covers but there’s a sheet at the bottom of the bed that Harry must’ve thrown over him. There’s a flannel pressed between his cheek and the pillow, still slightly damp but lukewarm now. 

Harry’s breathing behind him. And this time -- instead of like every other night he’s spent here -- he can feel Harry’s hand against his side, the curve of his body pressed close enough to the base of his back to feel his body heat. He could roll back into it and he wants to but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth at the thought of him waking up. 

He sits up as gently as he can instead, Harry’s knuckles brushing against his hip as his hand slides off his side and something falls down into his lap. He can’t tell in the dim of the room what it is but when he lifts it up, he can make out the unmistakable shape of a chain, the curve of the Miraculous medal at the bottom. It’s warm from where it was tangled up in Harry’s sleep-limp hand. He drags it over his head as he makes his way out of the room, letting it settle against his chest. He squints at in the hallway, thumbs over the ridge of Mary at the front and the stars at the back. After a few steps he gets used to it, headache from earlier blissfully gone as he adjusts to the light. 

The light on the cooker tells him it’s four in the morning but he pads across the living room to check on the ticking clock to make sure that he had actually slept for twelve hours straight. 

A light clicks on behind him and Niall jumps, the stillness of the night disrupted by Harry standing beside him. He looks bed-rumpled, hair sticking up at the back of his head and his eyes still squinting because of the light. 

“Go back to bed,” Niall tells him before Harry can open his mouth. He brushes past him to get to the kitchen and pulls a bottle of water out of the fridge. He drinks nearly half of it in one go to get rid of his dry mouth and then drinks the rest just for something to do as Harry gazes at him. 

“Are you alright?” Harry asks him and his voice sounds so serious with his sleep-rough tone. He doesn’t sound like he’s up for any of Niall’s bullshitting. 

“Yeah.” Niall nods and perches himself on one of the stools at the island. In truth, his legs feel shaky, knee achy, but he doesn’t feel like he could throw up so Niall takes it as a win. 

Harry crosses the kitchen after him. The light from the fridge cuts across the island when he opens it and then the kitchen goes back into dim as he pulls out what he needs and closes it again. 

“It’s fine,” Niall says once he realises that Harry’s about to start cooking. 

“You didn’t have any dinner,” Harry tells him and there’s a scolding edge in his tone. Niall bites his lip. The lack of leftovers tells him that Harry probably didn’t eat either. 

Harry looks tense as he starts pulling things out of bags onto the chopping board. He doesn’t look around him as he reaches for the frying pan at Niall’s feet or the knife from the block at his elbow. 

Niall would reach out normally. Put his hand reassuringly on his back or knead his fingers into Harry’s shoulders. He’d wrap an arm around his belly and take the knife out of his hand to chop up the pepper himself. 

Instead he leaves him to it, watches as he cuts the pepper into rough little squares with shaky hands. 

“I’m alright,” he says softly because this he can do. He can reassure him with his words. 

Niall knows the signs. Knows when Harry’s stressed out about work or the band or writing. How he snaps when people piss him off and how he gets annoyingly chatty when he’s hungover. He can hear the sarcasm underneath the charm when people interrupt him. Knows how he gets quiet when he’s homesick and mopey when he misses a call from Gemma. 

How he goes all mother hen when he’s worried about someone. 

Harry’s hand pauses over the edge of a yellow pepper. He hasn’t butchered this one as bad as the half of red that he’s already cut through. 

“You didn’t wake up,” Harry says shakily. “I thought you were just ignoring me but then I opened the door and you were actually asleep.”

“My head hurt,” Niall tells him gently. He swallows down the urge to tell him he’s fine again because that normally doesn’t fly well with Harry, he needs to know everything that’s going on so he get a proper grip on the situation. It’s crazy how quickly it all clicks into place. Like Niall had never forgot. 

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” Harry admits and turns his head to the side slightly so Niall can see more of his ashen face. “I thought -”

Niall swallows. He lifts his hand up to the medal around his neck and watches how Harry’s eyes shutter. It feels familiar in his hand, like the ones he wore when he was a kid and it was a fad to wear them round your neck, even if you didn’t fully believe in them. Niall never really did. It’s a piece of metal that was probably bought in a shoddy monastery shop that had became a touristy commercial hive; hardly enough to protect him but he knows that Harry trusts them, finds whatever solace he needs in them. 

“I don’t know what I thought,” Harry says. Niall blinks slowly at the wobble in his voice and lets the medal thunk back against his chest. Harry makes no mention of it as he starts to cut the pepper again, knife slicing evenly through it, so Niall doesn‘t either. He knows Harry’s giving it to him. Harry shakes his head down at the chopping board. “It doesn’t matter.”

Niall’s happy to leave it at that. He’s not sure what dynamic they’ve mixed themselves up in now. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say in response to that. 

He clears his throat and finishes his water. “Just needed a rest,” he says brightly and it feels like he’s reassuring a child. Harry’s shoulders lock again and he knows that Harry probably feels the same. 

“Will you tell me the next time you feel poorly?” Harry asks him quietly. 

“Harry,” Niall starts to protest because he doesn’t want to have to run to Harry about this. It’s just the odd headache. Nothing he can’t handle. 

Harry turns his head. “Hypothetically.” It comes out a bit sharp and Niall just nods, too tired to argue about it. 

There’s still something simmering underneath it all. Things that haven’t been resolved and things that need to be talked about, screamed about and cried about but there’s more there too. He gets that Harry is trying to make him feel better but maybe Harry needs a little bit of looking after too. That tug in Niall’s heart that wants to make sure that Harry’s feeling alright. With his head still groggy from sleep, it’s easy to focus on that part. To let the quiet stillness of the night take over and just let the two of them sit in the kitchen and eat omelettes. 

Harry must agree because he just quietly asks, “Mushroom?” 

“Nah,” Niall murmurs, careful not to break the silence surrounding them. 

Harry nods once and cracks a few eggs into a bowl, starts whisking with his fork. The pan sizzles when he throws a knob of butter onto it, filling the kitchen with sound. It smells good enough to make Niall’s belly rumble. 

These are Harry’s speciality. He’d drag him out of bed -- seemingly never tired enough after sex to just roll over and fall asleep -- and make him something to eat. He’d mix it up sometimes, dependant largely on what they had at their disposal. It could just be a bowl of Liam’s cereal on the bus or something fancy his housekeeper had left for him when they’d ditched the crew after California shows and went home to his house, dawn breaking by the time they got there. 

They’d been in a hotel somewhere in Europe the first time Harry’d made him an omelette. He’d climbed out of bed and gotten dressed, making Niall panic because they were still relatively new to the whole fucking and waking up together the next day development of their relationship. Harry’d grabbed his hand, wrestled him into a jumper that was too stretched to be his own and then led him by the hand down the stairs to the kitchen. 

Niall had climbed up onto the counter, the cool steel under his overheated thighs and grinned at him as Harry had pulled fancy pancetta and parmesan together for him. It must’ve been Italy then. He’d leant down and kissed his cheek when Harry’s eyes started to water from the onion, laughing into his mouth until Harry had kissed him back, frying pan growing too hot on the fancy hotel stove beside them. The night-time chef - bored between room service orders - had turned a blind eye when Harry grated too-expensive truffle on top and stood between Niall’s knees to eat off the same plate. 

He wonders if Harry still does that with whoever he’s seeing now, if they appreciate his weird post-coital snacks or would rather roll over and sleep instead. The thought burns through his gut -- someone else brushing away his tears when he peels garlic, Harry laughing giddily into his kiss-bitten mouth. 

But the thought of him sneaking into Michelin Star kitchens on his own hollows him out just as much, no one special to share that part of the night with him. 

“And voila,” Harry says, breaking Niall’s reverie. He flicks off the gas and presents him a plate and a fork. 

Niall smiles at him, inhaling the scent of melted cheese and egg. He sets it in front of him and digs in, watching from the corner of his eye as Harry shoves the frying pan into the sink and drags a stool up beside him. 

There isn’t a second plate. 

A smile finds Niall’s mouth easily as he nudges it over to him, offering him his half. 

Some things never change. 

*

The first press of the ice makes him jolt but it gives way to a satisfying wave of relief once his skin gets used to it. He collapses back into the sofa, tilts his head into the cushions and tries to get into a comfortable position where he can lift his knee over the back of the sofa. 

“Hey, Niall, could do with some help here!” Harry shouts from the doorway and Niall freezes. He’s not even doing anything wrong but there’s a clutch of panic in his stomach as if he’s being caught out. 

He can hear the slap of Harry’s flip flops as he rounds the corner. “Right, you lazy bastard, come on and help me with -”

He cuts off abruptly, hands falling to his sides as he stares at Niall. 

“Oh,” Harry says and Niall can see his expression morph into concern. It makes him feel slightly uncomfortable, he doesn’t want Harry fussing over him anymore than he already is. “Why didn’t you _say?_ “

“It’s nothing,” Niall says and tries to shuffle himself into a better position. Lying prone across the sofa in nothing but a pair of boxers and a bag of ice to your knee isn’t really the best idea. Harry crosses the living room in a few strides and Niall can’t get his leg down quick enough, can’t squirm away before Harry’s shoving his arse onto the sofa along with him and poking at his hand to see the ice. 

“Do you want some more?” he asks and Niall shakes his head, tries to wriggle away again. 

“Leave it, Harry,” Niall insists. There’s that intense build up of defensiveness again, he doesn’t _need_ Harry to get him anything. Doesn’t need Harry at all. He tries to take a breath, tries to channel whatever had come over him last night to let Harry fuss but it doesn’t work because Harry ignores him and wraps his fingers around Niall’s wrist. They feel hot compared to the ice in his hand, his palm slowly going numb and his knee not numb enough. 

“Lift up, lemme see,” Harry tells him instead, tugging at his wrist. Niall stubbornly holds the ice harder to his knee, letting the cold seep into his hand. 

“No,” he says and tilts his knee away from Harry. “What do you need to see for? It’s fine. Just leave me alone.”

Harry gives him a reproachful look and Niall feels the anger ebb into guilt. 

“Why won’t you just let me take care of you?” Harry asks, blunt as ever. Niall sucks in a breath. Harry holds his gaze and he looks lovely up this close. 

He can catalogue everything like this. The way his lips look full and red, the little lines that have grooved their way into the skin around his eyes. He has a spot on his hairline, half tucked into a curl of shiny hair and a growth of rough hair on his chin that would probably hurt when Niall kissed him. Niall swallows. If he were to kiss him. 

“Just not used to it,” Niall says. Harry narrows his eyes, gets a wrinkle in his forehead.

“Well,” he says slowly. Harry’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist. It feels like he’s being anchored down. “I thought we agreed last night to let me help you out.”

Niall narrows his eyes. They’d agreed no such thing. After they had eaten, Harry had walked him back to bed and crawled in after him, an inch of space between them as he fell back asleep and Niall tossed and turned. They hadn’t talked much more about it. 

He’s feeling the lack of sleep now that afternoon is creeping into evening. 

“You said you’d tell me when you were feeling ill,” Harry reminds him and Niall clenches his teeth together. 

“This is my knee, this isn’t me feeling faint.”

“When did you feel faint?” Harry asks sharply and Niall wants to kick him in the shin. Then kick himself there too for sticking his foot in it.

“Hypothetically, Harry,” Niall parrots back at him and Harry’s expression relaxes. He’s still pressed close, enough that Niall can smell the New Car scent lingering on his shirt. It gapes a bit, letting Niall glimpse at the menagerie of new birds he’s got on his chest. There’s a bloom of colour on his left breast, the tipped wing of a parrot the only thing that isn’t in black. Niall’s missed so many. 

He’s not wearing a necklace. Not now that it’s found a new home around Niall’s neck. 

“Would you like more ice?” Harry asks and it feels like a test now, words extra weighty. 

“Yes, please,” Niall says because the ice in his hand has gone slushy. Harry nods, face blooming into a smile. 

“Be right back,” Harry promises him and gets to his feet. Niall sighs, sinks back into the cushions and tries not to feel helpless. Harry’s still smiling when he gets back, fresh ice all wrapped up in his hand. He nudges away Niall’s hand at his knee and presses the ice to it instead. 

“I’ve got it,” he murmurs when Niall reaches for it and there’s a brief moment of hesitation where Harry presses harder at his knee until Niall relaxes again. Harry grins, moves the ice and presses his free thumb into the joint of his knee. It makes Niall hiss, his other leg kicking out. 

“Watch it,” Niall says, warning right on the tip of his tongue. 

“Sorry.” Harry pulls a face. “I’m trying to remember how I used to do it.”

Niall slumps at the tone of Harry’s voice. He’d forgotten too that Harry used to do this for him, back before he got his knee fixed and it was giving him trouble. 

Harry looks very far away all of a sudden, perched on the edge of the sofa near his knee. Niall wants to pull him close because he looks adorable, his brow furrowed and his lip all caught up in his teeth. He presses down again, this time more gently, right where the pain is the worst. 

“Yeah,” Niall sighs out and slumps down further. He lifts his other leg out of the way so Harry has more space on the sofa to sit and then rearranges it over Harry’s lap. He tries not to think anything more about the position as Harry presses into his knee again, alleviating some of the pressure. “Right there, fuck.”

Harry laughs, a soft thing out of his nose and looks up, eyes bright as Niall smiles back at him.

“I’ll get the groceries,” Harry says once the ice has gone melty again and Niall’s knee is starting feel pleasantly numb. 

“I can help, if you need me to.” 

Harry gives him a look. “I’ve got it. Just relax.”

Niall rolls his eyes at him but Harry ignores it and jumps off towards the front door. 

Niall takes it as his chance to escape out the back door and down the beach a little bit. It’s humid, enough to make the hair at the back of his neck sit up. There’s more clouds in the sky than usual, sun beating down from between them. The sea kicking up choppily against the wind.

There’s someone out in the water, a lone figure what seems a long way away. Niall hasn’t seen anyone else other than Harry in a few days. He has the urge to go and sit on the shore until the person wades out just to talk to someone in actual words and not prickly barbs. He doesn’t though, just drops down onto one of the beach chairs they’ve dragged to the edge of Harry’s garden. 

He could drop off like this, the sun making him drowsy. He blinks slowly, lets his eyes flutter shut on the swimmer until Harry looms over him, blocking out the sun for a brief moment. Niall blinks, eyes adjusting.

There’s a halo of light around Harry’s frizzy hair and when he blinks again he sees Harry’s nervous grin before a flash of bright sun glare makes him close his eyes again. 

“Sorry,” Niall apologises and raises his hand to his eyes to block out the last of the sun. He didn’t mean to drop off -- even if it was only for a few minutes. 

Harry shakes his head. “My fault, I didn’t think it would take me so long. I started on dinner too.”

He sits up on the chair so he’s not lying prone in front of Harry. The slats dig into the back of his thighs and his back twinges at being in the same position so long but it’s better now he’s upright. 

“Got you a present,” Harry says and he smiles again, a tiny little curve of his mouth that Niall’s never really seen him do before. It must be something he’s started doing recently, that sort of quiet smile never existed in the old version of Harry. 

Niall blinks. He has to stop comparing them. They’re both different people now.

“Oh yeah?” Niall asks. There’s a package beside him, settled in the sand. Niall can’t look at it too long because he has a nagging suspicion about what it is. “What is it?” he asks anyway, a glutton for punishment. 

Harry smiles again. “Thought you’d maybe want something to play about with. Stop you from getting bored.”

He pulls back the paper and exposes a soft leather case. It looks beautiful, sun bleached and softly shiny.

“Can’t believe it took me so long to realise,” Harry says, hand sweeping over the case. “This’ll be more fun than a deck of cards, eh?”

“I haven’t played in ages,” Niall blurts out. 

Harry’s eyebrows dip down, his excited expression slipping off his face. “How come?” 

“Been on break, haven't I?”

“What? For a month?” Harry pulls the rest of the paper away. Niall focuses on the crinkle of it, loud enough to be heard over the lapping of the waves.

“Since twenty sixteen, I think,” Niall says quietly. Since they’d been on tour. Since they’d been together. 

Niall picks at the bottom of his shorts. Harry's probably cut up a pair of old jeans, the hem too frayed to be on purpose. Niall doesn’t mean for it to sound so glum and he wishes he could take it back but the knot between his shoulder loosens because he’s allowed himself to let it out. He had left all his guitars in his house, gathering dust propped up along the walls. 

“Well,” Harry says quietly. Niall isn't sure why he sounds so sad too. He unzips the case, exposing the guitar underneath. “Consider this coming out of retirement.”

Harry hands it over without much ceremony and it’s cool in his hands, a familiar heavy weight across his lap. Harry hands him a plectrum next and it's not like the ones he's used to, there's no shiny white ram or emblazoned initials. It's flimsy, made out of something expensive and light, but it fits his thumb perfectly.

“Got the man in the shop to tune it,” Harry explains, watching as Niall runs his hands over the shiny wood. It feels cool and supple. A familiar weight against his knee. “But he didn't speak very good English and you know me and my awful Spanish so you might have to fix it.”

Niall smiles, holds his fingers to the fret and gives it a quick strum. The sound reverberates through the wood, Niall can nearly feel it vibrate against his knee. The strings thrum, all kinetic energy waiting to be used again. It’s tuned well and Niall’s thankful because he doesn’t think he has the patience to tinker with it when he’s feeling jittery like this. 

Harry looks up at him expectantly. The sunlounger Niall’s on is close enough to the sand that there’s not much height difference between them and he can see the glitter in Harry‘s eye. He‘s excited. “What are you going to play?” Harry asks. 

Niall shrugs. His thumb catches against a string and it sounds out sharply. He smiles, something warm flaring up inside, before strumming his hand down again, playing a few chords of nothing in particular. It sounds jumbled, a bit like one of the songs on Harry’s playlists. He can see Harry from the corner of his eye but he doesn’t look up as he segues seamlessly into the opening chords of What Makes You Beautiful. 

He hears Harry’s intake of breath and when he looks up Harry’s biting his bottom lip. Niall changes his fingers, works his elbow down. It floods back and Niall doesn’t have to even second guess the chord progression. 

“You‘re insecure,” Harry starts to sing. It’s thready and quiet, like Harry hasn’t sang in a while but there’s something beautiful in the way he cuts across the words, rough and raw. Niall closes his eyes, clears his own throat. “Don’t know what for. You’re turning heads -”

Niall’s fingers stall, change across the fretboard without thinking because he doesn’t need to hear this. He doesn’t want to hear something he’ll never sing again. He doesn’t know why he played it to begin with. His fingers go to G, slip into E. Harry’s shoulders stiffen and he trails off singing because Niall’s not playing a One Direction song anymore, progressing into the first few chords of Harry’s first solo hit without thinking. 

It’s nearly a taunt and it makes Niall feel sick that he even went there. He stops playing abruptly, strings twanging woodenly before he clamps his hand down over it. He catches Harry’s bewildered look and glances down at the guitar again. 

“Thanks for the guitar,” Niall says, feeling awkward at being so formally polite. He can’t accept any more gifts from Harry, it doesn’t feel right. He’s already starting to itch out of his skin at wearing all of his clothes. “I’ll give you the money for it.”

Harry’s hand reaches into his line of vision, hovers over the stretch of sand between them and disappears back again. Niall follows it, searches it out in Harry’s lap, one ring on his first knuckle as he twists it nervously. Niall’s seen the match of it somewhere.

“Don’t,” Harry says and Niall lifts his head. Harry clears his throat, dislodges whatever’s stuck there. “Don’t.” There’s more finality in it this time and Niall feels himself nod. The mood’s ruined now, if there had been one to begin with. The sun’s setting in the sky and Niall can feel his skin finally begin to blister; it‘s only taken a few days. 

“Think I need to go drown myself in after-sun,” Niall says, lifting his head to see if Harry laughs at his joke. He doesn’t, just quirks his mouth up into a small smile. He’s seen this one before, seen it stretched across his face when he doesn’t mean to smile at all. 

Niall gets to his feet, toes sinking into the still hot sand. He grips the guitar tight in his palm and reaches down to help Harry up with the other. Harry stares at his hand for a moment before he shakes his head. 

“Think I’m gonna sit for a mo,” he says and then looks out to the sea. “Leave dinner, I’ll check in on it in a minute, yeah?” 

Niall swallows around something suddenly thick in his throat. “Yeah,” he says and turns, sand kicking up as he starts to walk back towards the house. 

The oven is on and the kitchen is just as hot as outside so Niall slides back onto the sofa he’d been on earlier, guitar sitting on the island like a trophy. 

Harry ignores him when he comes in, doesn’t say a word as he pokes about the oven and wafts steam out of his hair. It smells good, something tomato-y and Niall’s glad that Harry’s taken to cooking for them again, he doesn’t think he could be bothered. 

They eat in mostly silence too. Harry only murmuring a thanks when Niall passes him another bottle of beer from the fridge. It sets Niall on edge slightly, everything they’ve worked up to going to pot. 

The clouds have gathered on the horizon, thickening into dark puffs off in the distance, so they stay inside after dinner, music floating out of the docking station on rotation. 

“Do you ever think about it?” Harry asks a while later, after the rain has started. Niall rolls his head against the cushion to see where he’s sprawled out across the opposite sofa. They’re both lying across them funny, Niall’s feet kicked up over the back of the cushions and Harry’s head hanging off the edge. 

“Think about what?” Niall tips the bottle of beer resting on his chest towards his mouth. There’s not enough in it for gravity to do its job and he leans up awkwardly, neck overextended, to take a sip. 

“The boat.” Harry says once he’s settled back into his position, skull near the floor. 

“Oh,” Niall says, a bit taken aback. They’ve skirted around the topic of the boat mostly, Harry focusing on his actual injuries. The ones he can physically take care of. “No, not really. What’s there to think about?” 

“I know you think I’m pushing,” Harry says carefully. Niall’s eyes snap to his. “Earlier with the guitar.”

“It’s fine,” Niall says, possibly too loud. 

Harry bites his lip. “I thought it could help you talk about it. You always were much more open when you have something to fidget with.”

Niall takes a breath. That’s the problem with Harry, he can natter on about all sorts of crap and then say something that completely floors you. He’s completely right, Niall’s fingers itch when he’s talking about these types of things. Things that seem to come so easily for Harry who sometimes just says them as they come into his head. He wouldn’t mind a guitar to hide behind now, something heavy to settle across his lap. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Niall says tiredly. “It was some freak accident or something.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at him, except they look like they’re going down because of the way he’s lying. Niall blinks and tries to orientate himself. He kicks his legs and swivels his hips until he can hang his head off too and see him, oddly enough, right way up. 

“What if someone wanted to kill you?” Harry asks. All the blood in Niall’s body is rushing to his head, making him feel dizzy

“What?” Niall asks incredulously but it comes out slightly choked with the way he’s lying. It’s harder to breathe like this too, his lungs feel further away. “No one wants to kill me. No one knew it was even me on the bloody boat.”

Harry frowns again but it still looks funny, his hair hanging straight down. He looks shocked like this, like he’s been messing with the sockets with wet fingers.There’s a rumbling in the distance, the sound of thunder far away. “We can still talk about it.”

Niall shrugs, shoulders aching. If he lifts his arms they’ll fall down above his head to the floor. Harry’s going a bit red in the face and Niall wonders if he’s the same. His head feels heavy with all the blood in it. 

“It’s just a boat, doesn’t really mean anything.” Niall tells him. Harry huffs a sigh, rolls the bottle against where his chest is bare, shirt half buttoned. Niall wonders if it’s even cool anymore. 

“Yeah, but you were on the boat.” Harry rolls his tongue against the lip of the bottle. “That has to mean something to you.”

“Harry,” Niall sighs and rolls his head back into the sofa. His neck is starting to ache. He could do with one of those fancy massages Harry used to get when he was going through his growth spurts. “Just leave it.”

“But what if someone _was_ trying to kill you?” Harry asks. Niall groans to himself and wonders how many bottles of beer Harry’s had since dinner or if he‘s been affected by the sun. He’s exhausted. He doesn’t need Harry’s tipsy ramblings but he sort of understands. It’s like Harry doesn’t want to actually talk about it so he’s creating something ridiculous to talk about instead, as if it could trick Niall into somehow talking about it. He’s been on the end of conversations like this before. Niall’s forgotten half the absurd things Harry used to talk about. As much as Harry sometimes just comes right out with it, he’s one for playing games too. 

“Don’t you want to find out? What really happened?” Harry asks and he looks so genuine that Niall starts to feel bad. Maybe this _is_ all he wants to talk about. He rolls until he’s sitting, hair flopping down into a mess at the top of his head. “I think I’d want to know everything, the full picture.” 

“I just --” Niall sighs and rolls up too. It makes his head swoop, the sudden movement of blood again. His eyes fizzle and blur for a moment before he blinks everything back into focus. He can’t look at Harry when he’s like this, that blazing look in his eyes. It’s too intense. Niall’s too _tired_. 

“Harry,” Niall groans. “Look, no one wanted to kill anyone. Stop watching so many shit CSI reruns and forget about it. No one was hurt.”

“You were hurt.” 

He says it so quietly that Niall could’ve missed it. Even though he’s only on the other sofa, he seems so far away. Niall lifts a heavy hand and reaches out to him.

He moves sluggishly, like all his limbs have fallen asleep as he crosses the carpeted area and climbs into the space beside Niall easily, settling against Niall’s thighs. Harry curls against him, nose against Niall’s collarbone until Niall leans back into the pillows and they’re sort of sprawled comfortably across the sofa again. Harry’s too tall to do this properly but Niall gathers him up as best as he can. 

Niall’s heart expands painfully. He can hear the thud of his own heartbeat and feel the heat of Harry’s skin, pressing against his chest. His medal digs into his sternum but he doesn’t move Harry, lets him press in as close as he wants. There’s a selfish part of him that wants to take this for himself, let him hold Harry and forget where they are. He could pretend that this is their home, their little stretch of beach and that this is normal for them, folded together on one sofa to ride out the storm. 

He runs a hand through Harry’s brittle hair, chlorine and salt taking their toll, and listens to Harry hum against him. It’s nearly too intimate, too like a fading memory that Niall’s been trying to forget. 

“You shouldn’t be thinking about it,” Niall says, even though the silence between them is comfortable. Harry’s hum pauses. 

“I can’t help it,” he says softly against Niall’s chest. Niall can feel the prickle of Harry’s stubble against his skin and he’s suddenly hyper aware of all the places they’re pressed together with nothing between them. Harry moves a leg, a soft drag of hair and skin against the inside of Niall’s knee. 

“You’re on holiday,” Niall forces himself to say. “You should be having fun.”

Harry makes a noise, halfway to a snort and glances up at him. “I am having fun.” 

“Murder mystery is fun now?” Niall asks sceptically. Harry’s face splits into a short grin. 

“Where else do you think Miss Marple got her kicks?” Harry asks. 

It breaks the stillness between them, Harry’s grin growing. Niall laughs and leans in before he’s even thought it through. He can smell Harry’s shit excuse for cologne this close, the sharpness of it under a day of sweat and sun cream. It smells expensive and familiar. 

He kisses him without another thought. 

A press of his lips against Harry’s. Simple as that. 

He’s done it a million times before. _Before_. Before the kisses between them ever meant anything, before there was no reason not to kiss him, before he kissed him for the last time. 

He rears back, panic flooding through his stomach to squash down that warm, happy feeling that had been there. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Harry’s looking at him with wide eyes, his mouth dropped open a bit so Niall can see how wet his mouth looks just inside. 

He inhales again, smells Harry. Feels the heat of his skin stretched out on top of him and he leans in again. Does it again. 

There’s that painful pleasure there that keeps him there, like when he pulls on a ragnail or pushes a cotton bud so far into his ear it makes him cough. 

Harry pants against his lips, open-mouthed and damp. Niall licks sinfully across his mouth, dips into the heat of it. 

“We shouldn’t,” Harry whispers and Niall thinks _fuck it_ , pushing forward for another kiss. 

But Harry pulls back, sitting up before Niall can get a proper grip on his wrist. He pushes himself onto the sofa cushion, just one of his legs still flung over Niall’s knee. Niall longs for him to come back, he wants to feel his heavy weight pinning him down again. 

“I --” Harry says and he’s a bit breathless. His shoulders rise and he won’t meet Niall’s eye. “I have to go.” 

Niall frowns as Harry climbs up. 

“Harry,” Niall calls after him, finding his voice just as Harry starts up the stairs, his footsteps echoing loudly around the villa with the doors closed. 

Somewhere outside, thunder rumbles again. 

He doesn’t come back. 

Instead Niall listens for any sound of him, the rhythmic pacing of him past the door to the master bedroom, the music he’s got playing from his phone, muffled by the door. 

He can still feel the wet warmth of Harry’s mouth when he lifts a hand to his lips. Feel the way he had pressed against him, wanting more before wrenching away. Niall’s front feels cold where Harry had been, and the chill seeps into his stomach until there’re goosebumps on his skin. He had been so _sure_ that Harry was going to kiss him back. But. 

He thinks he hears Harry’s voice but he must be imagining it. His headache is back with full force, the weather weighing heavily on him as the rain starts to pour. It makes his eyes fuzz, a blurred aura building in his left eye when he sits up. 

Niall itches for a cigarette, he can feel it gnawing at him. It’s been there a while but now that he’s acknowledged it, it’s became the only thing he can think about. 

It grates at him, wears him down until he finally snaps and goes to the cupboard where he stashed all the shit he had found when he was cleaning. He roots around in it for a moment and finds his lighter under a Six of Spades. He stares at it for a moment, the crease up the middle cracking across the design on the back. It’s the card he had been missing. Niall scrumples it in his fist, breathing hard. Underneath it is the ring, the same one that’s on Harry’s finger. 

He twists it onto his middle finger but it’s still too big and the front of it slips around his finger and digs into his palm when he closes his fist. 

It’s still warm, the muggy air doing nothing to cool him down as he slips out onto the deck. It’s a world of noise once he slides the door open, a torrent of noisy rain and faint rumbling thunder. There’s still the thump of bass from the town -- partiers partying on, weather be dammed. 

He grips the barricade at the edge of the decking with one hand and twirls his lighter in his other. His breath rattles in his lungs, throat raw as he inhales. Niall does his best to ignore it. He lifts a cigarette to his lips and the familiarity settles him a bit, quells the buzzing under his skin a fraction. He breathes through his nose, lifts his hand, thumb poised over the flint of the lighter. 

And he can’t do it. 

He stares, as if the lighter will light itself. His thumb locks at the joint, his fingers slippery around the body of the flimsy lighter as he starts to sweat in the last of the sun. He’s done it thousands of times before. 

It’s easy. Just press down, drag your nail across the flicker and light it. Listen for the hiss of gas, watch as it catches. Watch as it ignites.

Niall thinks of the flickering flames engulfing his bedroom. The catch of smoke at the back of his throat.

His fingers unclench and the lighter drops, skittering across the shiny tiles of the patio before disappearing underneath the table where they had breakfast this morning. 

He’s breathing hard without really realising it. Bent forward enough to catch the torrent of rain outside the rafter, cigarette still clamped in his mouth but he’s pushing his breath out of his nose, loud and nasally. 

“Are you mad?” Harry says, suddenly appearing behind him. He sounds angry but far away so Niall doesn’t process it properly, just lets it fade into white noise at the back of his mind. Something knocks at him and the cigarette is gone, sticking limply to the damp of his bottom lip for a moment before it drops away too. He’s jostled then, hands moving at his shoulders before he’s face to face with Harry, hair wet and shoulders bare. 

“What were you thinking?” Harry demands and it’s harder to ignore him when he’s in front of him. "Your voice. Niall, it's been getting better!" His voice still sounds far away, an echo in the tiled alcove the balcony opens into but Niall’s starting to focus on his breathing now too, drowning everything else out but the rough in and out of it. 

His chest is starting to get tight, heart thumping between his malfunctioning lungs. 

“Shit,” Harry swears and Niall’s being bundled into one of the wicker seats. It scratches at his leg and it’s disorientating, Harry standing above him, stomach in his eyeline instead of his face.

The rain bounces off the tiles, creeping in underneath the awning until both of their feet are wet and slippery. It’s warm, doesn’t feel like rain at all as it soaks into his skin. 

He’s still breathing hard and Harry’s hands are pushing at his shoulders. He’s unsure if it’s supposed to be reassuring or restraining. 

He looks up beseechingly at Harry. “Just breathe,” Harry tells him, dropping to his knees in front of him, meeting his gaze full on. 

It feels like there’s something sitting on Niall’s chest and he struggles, Harry’s orders just making the fight feel worse. The chain around his neck is weighing him down, sinking into the folds of his skin. 

He reaches out, grips around Harry’s wrist. The pads of his fingers find the cord of his bracelet, scramble at his skin until Harry twists his hand and lets Niall interlock their fingers, the warmth of his skin and cool metal of the ring. Niall gasps in a breath and holds on, lets Harry anchor him down. 

Only when the ringing in his ears dies down and all he can hear is the roll of the rain does Niall look up. 

“Thanks,” Niall say shakily. Harry’s eyebrows twist. He’s still on his knees in front of him, chest bare. He’s washed his face and done something with his hair. “Are you going somewhere?”

Harry’s mouth pulls taut. “Not anymore, I’m not.”

Niall’s heart sinks. “Don’t stay on my account.” Harry hadn’t mentioned going out at all this evening. So Niall had forced him away and then somehow dragged him back in against his will. Niall closes his eyes, feeling like a burden. 

But Harry ignores him, helping him up by the hand still clenched in Niall’s fingers. Niall tries to let go but Harry just squeezes his fingers and pulls him in the direction of the stairs. 

Niall would protest but his bones feel tired, his knee aching again as they take the steps slowly. There’s still music filtering out of the bathroom, something bouncy. It smells like orange shower gel as Harry walks him to his bedroom. Somewhere, Harry’s phone starts to ring loudly. 

“Get some rest,” Harry says quietly standing beside him as Niall falls into bed. He leans down to pull the sheets up over his side, pausing for a moment before brushing his lips over Niall’s temple. 

Niall has the urge to say _don’t go_ and it makes his skin crawl, he can’t work through the jumble of feelings in his head. He feels Harry’s breath on his cheek. His phone stops ringing in the other room. The song stops. 

And Harry tumbles into bed beside him. 

*

“Can I drive?” Niall asks. He feels restless. Harry hasn’t let him out of his sight all day and it’s making him itch out of his own skin.

Harry glances at him and then at the bottle of beer in his hand. “Don’t think so, mate.”

“Ah, come on,” Niall moans and sets the bottle of Corona onto the counter. It’s only half empty. “It’s my first one.”

“Pretty sure it’s just topping you up from the night before,” Harry comments quietly and keeps his grip tight around the car keys. 

Niall can’t help frowning.. “You were pretty blitzed last night too.”. Harry just gives him a look and opens the front door for him. 

Niall clenches his teeth together and brushes past him, standing stroppily outside the passenger side door until Harry unlocks the car for him. It isn’t doing anything to ease the helpless feeling Niall’s been experiencing the past few days. It feels like Harry’s his mum, crabby about having to do the school run. 

The car is warm, that stuffy feeling from sitting out in the sun all day. He cracks a window and takes a slug of his beer, knowing full well that Harry’s keeping an eye on him as they reverse out of the driveway. 

“You can’t turn up to a meeting with the _police_ fucked, Niall,” Harry tells him once they’ve pulled out of the street. Niall had been waiting for his comment and it burns through him. He doesn't need a lecture.

“It’s one beer,” he reminds him again. “And it’s three in the afternoon, don’t think they’ll care.”

Harry snorts but doesn’t push the subject. 

This time, Niall’s able to take in all the scenery, not falling asleep as Harry fiddles with the radio and finds a station he likes that’s blasting some Balearic-esque wafty house music. 

Now that they’re in the car -- as excited as he is to get away from the house for an hour -- Niall’s starting to feel nervous. He doesn’t really fancy seeing his boat in a wreck, somehow still floating even though everything inside has been burnt to a crisp. He takes another gulp of his beer but it’s already warm from sitting between his thighs. 

It’s a few miles of squiggly road through lush green fields and sun bleached motorway back to San Antonio and Niall tries to relax into Harry’s air conditioned seats, breeze whipping through the gap in the window. They’re just beginning to crawl through the midafternoon traffic towards the marina when the song on the radio cuts out and an old Miley Cyrus song blasts out of the car stereo instead. 

“Fuck.” Harry scrambles for his phone where it’s sitting in his cup holder beside the dash, thumb fumbling to cancel out of the call before Niall can see who it is. The radio takes a moment to register the phone call ending before going back to the music and in the split seconds, Niall’s able to see the name flash up on the fancy Bluetooth screen built in. 

Niall snorts. “Speaking of ex-boyfriends.”

Harry glances at him. “What?” 

“Even if I hadn’t seen the name,” Niall says idly. “I can’t believe that’s still your ringtone for him.”

“For who?” Harry tries to play it off cool but Niall can see through him. He rolls his eyes. 

“You don’t have to pretend,” Niall tells him. He has the urge to yawn but he thinks that might come across as rude so he bites his lip and tries not to give in to the way his jaw judders. He’s not living in denial, he’s aware that Harry will have fucked a fair few people since they’ve seen each other. It’s not like Niall’s been celibate either. 

Harry clears his throat and when Niall glances over he notes that he looks genuinely uncomfortable. 

“Will it make you feel better if I tell you some of the people I’ve been with?” Niall asks because it sort of vaguely makes sense in his head that that will make it better. At least get something out in the open. They’ve hardly talked about those few years of silence, both of them skirting around the topic. 

Harry’s frown deepens but he doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the road. Niall doesn’t know how he’s driving without sunglasses, he used to practically live in the things. 

“It’s kind of hard to hold up a relationship when you keep moving about,” Niall says, taking his silence as affirmation. He hums to himself. Maybe this wasn’t the best thing to do to get Harry to open up. He could just be embarrassing himself. He finishes his beer to gain some time before spilling his guts. 

“There was this guy when I was staying with a friend in San Fran. That didn’t last very long. Then I tried a sort of long distance thing with Laura that started off when she was in Australia last year. I tried to go back home for a while to see how things panned out but well --” Niall swallows. He didn’t last very long. “I went away again and it sort of trailed off. We still talk now and again but she’s super busy.”

Niall can see the way Harry’s jaw is clenched, the definition of the bone through the skin of his cheek. He’s breathing heavily through his nose. Niall hesitates before speaking again. 

“Then there was --”

“Stop it.” Harry pulls the car into a parking space not that far away from the entrance to the marina. There’s a lot of people about, holiday makers and teens making their way down the waterfront. He brakes sharply and Niall’s back comes away from the cool seats. Harry gestures between them. “This isn’t a thing. We don’t need to discuss this.”

“Ok,” Niall says quietly. “Just thought --” He shrugs. He doesn’t know what he thought. It makes sense in his head, that Harry could maybe relax if he knew exactly what Niall had been up to. That it’s ok that he’s been seeing somebody else. 

“Well,” Harry mutters and opens his door. “Stop thinking.”

Niall scowls and follows him out onto the hot pavement. They push past a few people and Harry lets him lead the way down the marina. 

It’s hard to miss his boat, the shell of it still tied up to the post. There’s a crowd of people around it, a loop of police tape like in the movies. He doesn’t know why it hasn’t been moved, he thought it’d be taking up space in some lab somewhere. 

The policewoman that Niall had spoken to in the hospital is standing beside it, one foot up on the anchor post. Her hair is pulled back from her face and she looks utterly bored as Harry and Niall approach. 

“Mr Horan,” she greets. Niall takes his sunglasses off, shakes her hand. She introduces the man beside her but Niall doesn’t listen for a name, he’s too busy staring at the frame of his boat. 

The fire clearly done its worst after Niall had been carted away to hospital. There’s hardly any of it left and what is there has been charred beyond use. Niall can see a ashen floral pattern of the tablecloth lying on the deck. They had had dinner on it before they went to bed, a few glasses of wine watching the world go by on the marina. Willie had caught him pulling a thread and told him off for ruining it. Well, it’s certainly ruined now. 

Harry digs him sharply in the ribs and he snaps his attention back to the woman in front of him. She looks slightly perplexed and more than annoyed that he’d been daydreaming. He clears his throat and tries to get rid of the hazy memories of the fire. He feels hot, as if he’s still there in that moment. 

“Sorry,” he apologises and risks a glance at Harry. He looks annoyed, his face pinched as he squints at the woman instead of looking at Niall. He’d had the urge to reach out for his hand but it’s doused as soon as he thinks of it. “Can you repeat that?”

“I was just running through the electrical fault. There’s no evidence of illegal tampering and our analysts have discovered some faulty wiring in the kitchen area.” She sounds so matter of fact that Niall’s head spins. He was nearly killed by a dodgy kettle or something.

“Ok,” Niall says because it’s not every day you get landed with information like this. He’s at a loss what to do now. 

The woman smiles. “You’re free to go home now. We can file a report and give it to you to aid any insurance claims and email it to you back in the UK if that would be more convenient?”

Niall stiffens. He’s officially allowed to leave now. Harry’s face looks guarded when he glances around again but he doesn’t show anything as they thank the police team and turn back towards the pier. 

Niall takes one last look at the boat. It seems smaller now, with the frame whittled down to a skeleton. When he had bought it, it felt huge. A luxurious extravagance and childish waste of money. Something so lavish that it would take his mind off things for a while. It was exciting, finally something fun to do and an excuse to get away from home.

And now he doesn’t have that excuse. He flicks his eyes back over at Harry, takes in the way he’s regarding him quietly. The sun is behind him, making Niall squint a bit. He doesn’t have an excuse for Harry either. There’s nothing forcing him to stay with him in the house. Nothing stopping him from leaving and never seeing him again. 

Seven days ago and that would’ve been Niall’s preferred option. 

Now he’s not so sure. 

Niall clears his throat, suddenly feeling like he’s being scrutinised. He can still feel the eyes of the police officers behind him and the weight of Harry’s gaze too. He sweats in his thin t-shirt and looks out at the ocean. 

It’s much busier here, a world away from the tranquil quiet of Harry’s beach. There’s men on every corner with armfuls of garish sunglasses and flashing strobe lights, holiday makers screaming and laughing in the water. There’s music pumping somewhere where partiers never sleep. 

The last place Niall wants to be is cooped up in Harry’s air-conditioned car. 

“We should explore,” Niall says decisively and Harry narrows his eyes at him. 

“Explore?” he asks pensively and Niall nods. He doesn’t want to be back in the imposed boredom of Harry’s villa, even if it does sprawl out onto the beach. For once he doesn’t mind the brush of bodies against his arm as they push back up onto the main promenade. 

“You don’t want to sort out the insurance or anything?” Harry asks him, following half a step behind. Niall can hear the slap of his flip flops against the battered wood. Niall pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes, making it much easier to avoid other people’s half-recognising stares. 

“It’s just a boat,” Niall says with a shrug. He’ll keep saying it until he believes it. He glances over his shoulder at Harry, catches his grimace through a sepia hue. “Plenty more of them in the sea, right?”

Harry doesn’t answer, doesn’t even crack a smile, and Niall tamps down the irritation. He doesn’t know what Harry’s getting pissy at already. He’s hardly said anything to him. It’s a nice day, Niall can fuck off out of his hair if he wants. Harry should be _happy_. 

There’s a market up from the harbour, already bustling with an early evening crowd. People crawling out of the woodwork with their hangovers and their peeling sunburns. It’s awash with colour -- oranges and reds and yellows strung up above the little stalls. There’s music too, something more traditional than the constant backdrop of housey bass lines. 

Niall thinks of the guitar Harry got him, his present to make him feel more comfortable. It should be nice but it leaves a nasty taste in his mouth -- the heft of the wood in his lap, the cool metal twang of the strings. This sounds more melodic, warmer than anything he could play now. He steers towards the busker, pushing through the little gathering of tourists around his pitch and throws a few euro into his cap. He grins at him, eyes crinkling, and Niall watches his fingers pluck at the strings, the notes going sharp over the air before he loosens back into his tune. 

Harry’s hovering at his shoulder, his face still a picture of concern. 

“D’you want a daiquiri?” Niall asks him, feeling the need to move on from the music. It should cheer him up, warm his soul but it falls a bit flat the longer Niall thinks about it. This used to be something that made them excited, an instrument to mess about on and maybe, if they’re lucky, they’d end up with the beginnings of a song. Niall has to work to be inspired now. 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, swerves his way through the bustling crowd towards the stand of blenders. There’s all sorts of flavours so he orders two watermelon, watches as the girl behind the stall starts to blitz ice into a mush and layer white rum on top. He’s parched. 

Harry’s still standing beside him -- lingering -- and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the stiffness of his shoulders, the lock of his jaw. It’s making Niall want to copy him, the unexplainable anger inching up the back of Niall’s throat and making him want to lock up. 

He thanks the girl with a smile and passes Harry a cup with clumsy fingers. Harry takes it but makes no move to drink it and that only makes Niall suck on his straw harder, letting the icy alcohol soak into his mouth. 

The market winds up a street, tall buildings starting to stack up either side of them. There’s a slight hill but they’re suddenly bathed in shade and it lets Niall breathe a little bit easier. He sucks through his straw again, letting the ice cool him down. 

The market is full of arts and crafts, little keepsakes for people to take home to their families. He bypasses the fridge magnets and the postcards, he doesn’t need any of them, not now when they don’t have a tour bus with a big, shiny fridge that needs decorating. Liam had started it -- collecting a little something from each of the places they went to before they had all gotten lazy and there was nothing worth the reminder as tour dates blurred into one another. The last tour fridge had been particularly sparse. 

Harry was usually the best at finding them, eager to go that little bit extra in exploring cities to get something _unique_. It was normally something sentimental -- a tattoo someplace hidden, a blurred black and white photo that he’d print at a chemist on the sly or something that wouldn’t fit on the fridge at all, like pretty opal rosary beads from Rome or friendship bracelets from Barcelona. He’d always be sure that they’d match, forcing them all together before the show to slip little mementos into their pockets. 

There’s a stall near the end of the winding street, all dressed up colourfully. There’s a little girl at the side getting her hair twisted in brightl thread but Niall’s more interested in the braided bracelets in the tray at the front. 

“Harry,” Niall says over his shoulder without looking. “What colour do you want?”

There’s all sorts of designs and colours. Ones with little silver beads hanging off their plaited ends. He picks one up, a simple band of woven blues and greens and holds it out to Harry. 

“This one?” Niall asks. Harry holds his wrist out automatically and Niall winds it round, starting to tie the tasseled ends. He puts on a voice and grins up at Harry’s tight face, hoping that he’ll either smile or snap at him. Hoping for something -- anything -- out of him. “Reminds me of the ocean in your eyes,” he jokes.

Harry doesn’t laugh. Instead his face darkens and his hand comes down to twist at Niall’s wrist. 

“Where did you get this?” he asks and Niall blinks down to see that he’s twisting his palm up to see the front of the ring. He hadn’t taken it off and he’s mildly surprised to see that it stayed on this long even though it’s a bit loose. His hands are sweaty and it feels clunky now that he knows it’s there. 

Niall looks up to see the flicker of anger in Harry’s eye and wonders who it belongs to, who wore the ring that matches Harry’s. Harry doesn’t try to twist it off, he just shakes his head and rubs his thumb over the warm metal where it’s been pressed against the web of Niall’s fingers. It makes Niall shiver and he hates himself for it, something else flickering over Harry’s face instead. 

“Niall?” Harry asks before he steps back. He takes a deep breath. “Fuck.”

Niall frowns and clenches his fingers closed. 

“Why’d he give it back?” Niall asks and Harry’s face darkens. He doesn’t bother in asking who it belongs to, Harry’d never tell. 

“None of your business,” Harry snaps and turns away from the stall to walk back through the market. Niall drops the bracelet onto the stall and follows him, shoving through people to keep up. His knee twinges and the shoes he’s wearing are cutting into the soles of his feet but by the time they’re back onto the promenade he’s caught up. 

Harry stops abruptly at the corner of two streets and turns to him. “Give me it back.”

“What?” Niall asks, confused for a moment. There’s a woman selling booze cruise tickets beside them, clearly listening in. The sun feels too hot as Harry holds out his hand.

Niall reaches for his finger and twists off the ring. His fingers feel numb from the daiquiri. 

“That’s part of a life that has nothing to do with you--” Harry tells him. It sounds too quiet and honest for where they’re standing in the middle of a bustling street. 

“And whose fault is that?” is the only thing Niall can think to ask. 

Harry closes his hand around the ring, turning without another word towards the car.

The drive home is quiet. Harry doesn’t turn on the radio. Or tap his fingers on the steering wheel. He doesn’t hum along to some song he’s got in his head. Niall sits beside him, acutely aware of the tension radiating off him, the stiffness of his shoulders and the rigid way he changes gears. 

The Ibizan countryside has lost some of it’s shine on the return journey, looking dull through Harry’s tinted windows. 

Niall slams the door to the car when they pull into the driveway just because he can. 

“So fucking annoying,” Harry says under his breath. Niall bites his tongue on a retort. They’ve done this before, the snipping and biting at each other but it hasn’t gotten them anywhere.

He could follow him up the path to the villa but Niall finds himself standing on the spot. The sun’s falling, evening creeping in already. His wallet feels heavy in his back pocket, his skin prickles with heat. He’s been in the house for so long, dragging the days in under Harry’s watchful eye that it’s a pleasant reminder that he’s an adult and he can do whatever he likes. 

“I’m going for a walk,” he calls to Harry because he’s not that much of a dick to walk off without saying. 

Harry holds a single finger over his shoulder and Niall wonders why he bothered. 

There’s a bar just off the Playa d’en Bossa strip, not completely bunged but there’s a nice buzz to it. It helps that it isn’t dark, making it easy for Niall to get to the bar. He orders three beers because they’re on offer, hooks them through his fingers and then walks out past a group of hens gathered around a fishbowl and finds a table outside. 

It’s still warm, the sun just about down, the sky turning a streaked lilac above him. It reminds him of the first night he had stayed at Harry’s, pinks and blues mixing above them. He can’t see the sea from here but he can smell it, hear the thud of music and low chatter. It feels good to get out of the house, feels good to speak to someone even if it’s just a quiet gracias over the hubbub of the bar. 

The girls squeal by the door and it’s so familiar that Niall doesn’t look up until he feels a presence by his elbow. Harry looks ridiculous, jeans rolled up his legs so they’re stretched around just below his knee, some pair of loafers that are falling apart. It’s like he’s never been on holiday and he’s trying to adapt his everyday wardrobe to fit the part. 

“One of them for me?” Harry asks when Niall finally looks up to look at his face. 

“What do you think?” Niall asks, raising the bottle to his lips. It’s nearly empty. He swallows, sets it beside the empty ashtray and then reaches for another one. 

It hasn’t been long enough for Harry to cool down but he gives a thin smile that Niall can see through before he heads into the bar. The girls clamour for a picture and Niall watches as Harry smiles tightly at them, slings an arm around the bride’s shoulder and pulls a face for the four cameras on them before disappearing in through the door. He’s not surprised that the smile for the girls had been more genuine than any Niall has gotten from him today, they’re both well practised. 

By the time he’s come back Niall’s through the second beer, Harry’s had a round of drinks bought for the whole bar and the street lights have came on across the road, leaving everything a hazy gold. 

“So?” Harry asks after a few moments. He sits back in his chair, rocks on the back legs for a moment. Niall waits for the wobble, there’s always a wobble.

“Yes?” Niall asks, takes hold of the beer again. It’s sticky around the neck. Niall drains it. 

“Are we going to talk about this?” Harry asks. Niall blinks. He doesn’t particularly want to talk about anything but it’s slightly refreshing how blunt Harry’s being about it, maybe he’ll appreciate Niall being blunt back. 

“What’s there to talk about?” Niall asks, just to be a dick. They’ve been floating around this all day but he wants Harry to work for it now. 

Harry lands on all four legs of his chair with a thump. The glass on the shitty table wobbles, the ashtray clacks off one of his empties. 

“Last night,” Harry says slowly. “The past week, fuck, the last ten years?” 

“Everything then?” Niall asks and picks at the corner of the beer label. It peels away damply, gathering up in corrugated ripples under his blunt nail. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t drunk his beer so quickly. He’s got nothing else to drink and the fuzz in his head hasn’t quite kicked in as much as he’d like. 

Harry makes a noise, half like a snort. Niall looks up to watch as he swallows, long fingers wrapped around his beer. He’s got one shoulder thrown back, as if he’s still wobbling on the back legs of his chair even though he’s firmly on the ground. 

The girls by the door squeal again. There’s a chorus of _bye Harry!_ before they all troop out of the little decking area that belongs to the bar and onto the street. There's no goodbye directed at him.

Niall keeps Harry’s gaze the entire time, listening to them laugh as they go to join the strip proper. 

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” Harry finally starts. 

“You’ve seen me all week,” Niall reminds him coolly. He keeps Harry’s stare, watches as it goes pinpoint. 

“You know what I mean,” Harry says, and Niall can visualise his own hand around the steering wheel of his car, the dip of his DAB radio as he goes through a black spot and it sounds like Nick Grimshaw’s repeating himself as he introduces Harry onto his show. It feels like yesterday but when he glances up at Harry again, it seems so long ago. 

Niall rolls the foil of the label between his thumb and forefinger before flicking it towards the ashtray. Harry doesn’t say anything further so Niall glances up at him, quirks an eyebrow. He’d lift his drink to his mouth too but there’s nothing in it. 

“Everything got crazy,” Harry says and they both know it’s a weak excuse. Niall waits for him to finish though, just to be polite. He can feel it building up though, anger stirring in the anticipation of finally being able to get it out of his system. They’ve skirted around it enough that there’s relief seeping into his gut at getting it all out. 

That being said, he doesn’t really want to do it here, on the deck of a half crowded bar, the street filling up as people start to make their way to the clubs and pubs. 

“Crazy.” Niall sounds deadpan. His mouth feels dry, he itches for a drink. He swallows, throat protesting, but he tries not to look uncomfortable. He shifts his weight, sits back in the old wooden chair and wonders if this would be a bad time to head to the bar. 

“It _was_.” Harry leans in, as if to make his point clearer. His hand has a beer in a death grip. Niall longs for the other one, a tear of condensation working its way down the side. 

It’s still warm, the moon looming above them now. It’s clear tonight, making everything bright. There’s a steady thump of bass from somewhere. 

“It--” Harry starts. He looks frustrated, eyes glancing over Niall’s shoulder -- another fan probably. “It just got busy. How was I to know that it would get that mad? We had just come off tour. Off a tour where everything was going to shit. It was winding down, it was less hectic because it was coming to an end. It was strange going back to that craziness after months of everything going downhill.”

Niall tries not to let it sting. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. Niall had had fun those final few months, savoured the last weeks of touring. All with Harry by his side. He had been excited for it to end, just to spend more time with Harry. 

It didn’t feel like downhill. It felt more like a new beginning. 

“So crazy that you couldn’t even phone me?” Niall asks. “You didn’t contact me at _all_. You sent one of your little blonde assistants to my-- _our_ house to collect your stuff!” 

Harry opens his mouth and then snaps it shut. He narrows his eyes and looks mutinous for a flash. Niall doesn’t know why, Niall’s the one that’s allowed to be angry. 

“You didn’t tell me anything about what you were planning,” Niall keeps going, trying to keep his voice down. "The new songs. The _tour_." 

“It happened fast,” Harry says, crossing his arm defensively in front of him. “I didn’t--”

“Didn’t have the time?” Niall finishes for him. “Didn’t have the time to tell your b--” Niall can’t bring himself to say it. He swallows the words back down and clenches his teeth together. Inhales, feels his chest go tight. “Didn’t have time to let me know that you were signing on again, or going on tour or whatever?” Niall forces through gritted teeth. “You told me you were off to write for some American Idol reject’s debut album for fuck’s sake. I thought you'd be back.”

Harry’s face is unreadable when Niall looks up. “You weren’t my boyfriend.” 

Niall feels sick. Harry’s tone isn’t harsh but it feels like the worst thing anybody has ever said to him. His eyes sting as he pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. Maybe this is why they haven’t talked about it -- Niall’s not ready, not really. 

“No, wait!” Harry says, reaching out to grasp at Niall’s wrist. Niall twists out of it though, blinks his blurry vision away as he pushes his way off the deck and onto the street. He heads towards the house, against the flow of people and doesn’t care if Harry’s following. 

Niall bites his lip against the urge to sob. It’s there, in the middle of his chest, a crushing weight ready to be released but he can’t. He doesn’t want to give Harry the satisfaction. Everything in his head is turning red with anger. Before, at least he had the memory of those few months where everything was fun and right. And now Harry’s just ruined everything. Tainted it with four little words. 

It’s not until they’re nearly there that Niall realises that Harry’s walking a few paces behind him on purpose, shadowing him as they walk up the incline of the pavement towards the villa. 

“You’re an arsehole, you know!” Niall shouts into the black sky in front of him, ignoring the way his voice cracks. He can hear the ocean behind the row of stark white villas and Niall can’t remember which one is theirs, they all look the same when they’re nestled in green shrubbery and mini palm trees. “Stop being a fucking coward.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry finally snaps. Niall whirls around until he’s face to face with him. He’s pulled his hair down in the walk and it falls to just above his shoulders, frizzes out at the end with the still humid heat. The breeze catches the sweaty back of Niall’s neck. 

“What was I meant to say?” Harry asks him. “Oh, by the way Niall, I’m just popping over to LA here, think they’re gonna offer me a big deal.”

“ _Yes!_ “ Niall snaps. He’s got his hands on his hips just so he doesn’t ball them into fists and it looks like he’s bracing himself, squaring up to Harry. 

“And how do you think that would’ve gone down?” Harry asks, steps forward and raises his voice. They’re properly shouting now. Niall hopes they wake the neighbours. “You were fucked off the band was over. You were annoyed at how it was all sorted out. You didn’t want it to end. How could I tell you that I was offered another deal when they didn‘t _want_ you?”

Harry’s shoulders are heaving. He opens his mouth like he might say something else, but all Niall can hear is white noise, a buzzing in his ears that drowns everything out. His vision blurs a bit again but when he blinks he recognises the pink sombrero in the back of the car in the drive and heads towards it. 

“Niall,” Harry says behind him, quick to follow him up the path to the house. The door is open, because Harry’s an idiot but Niall’s glad that he doesn’t have to loiter around and wait for his key. It makes the smack of the door against the wall all the more satisfying. 

The lights come on automatically as Niall storms through the living room and into the kitchen. Harry’s fancy remote control working its magic. He pulls open the cupboard beside the fridge, goes for the bottle of whiskey at the back. 

It feels very dramatic, pouring an inch of it into a glass and drinking it straight, like he’s in one of those American TV shows that Louis used to force him to watch on layovers. It does the job though, burns his way down his throat until it’s the kind of sting he can put his focus into, not like the other one, not like the one burrowing a hole in his chest that he wants to forget all about.

“I didn’t mean that,” Harry says quietly from the doorway. Niall’s face twists. 

“Yes, you did.”

Harry’s face falls and he sighs. He forces both of his hands through his hair. “I didn’t.”

“Don’t.” Niall shakes his head. He pours another glug into the bottom of the glass. “Lie.” 

Harry looks up at him, Niall can’t look away. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Niall clarifies, voice gaining a thready strength. 

“Ok, I did mean it,” Harry says simply. Niall swallows the whiskey to mask the twang of hurt. He nods, appreciates the honesty. “I didn’t mean to say it like that though. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Niall eyes the fruit bowl in the middle of the island so he doesn’t have to look at Harry. Niall can’t say the same, there’s a bitter part of him that wants to spit words at Harry until he feels just like Niall had. Only Niall doesn’t have them. 

“And I didn’t want to hurt you then either,” Harry says. “We had whatever was going on between us. It was--”

He pauses and Niall listens to him sigh. It feels like Niall could bore a hole through the orange on the table. Harry’s got this low drone, almost calm when he speaks again. He’s right, they hadn’t put a label on whatever they were but Niall had no illusions about what was going between them. He assumed Harry was on the same page. Clearly not. 

“It was nice. It was _good_ ,” Harry continues. “But it wasn’t going to last.”

“It could’ve,” Niall bites out, unable to help himself. “I thought it would.”

He hears Harry make a noise but Niall can’t look round. He wanted honesty but this is edging on too much. It feels like he’s about to spill his guts, blurt out everything he’s been ruminating over for the past three years and he can’t look at him while he does it. Now that he knows it won’t be mirrored back to him, he’s not sure he can. 

“It _wouldn’t_ ,” Harry says emphatically. Niall’s shoulder jerks, as if he’d been physically touched. “We were --”

Harry pauses to take another breath, sharp and loud in the otherwise silent room. Everything is white and chrome, it hurts Niall’s eyes. He looks at the whiskey instead. 

“You were --” Harry starts again and Niall can feel the anger start to bubble up again. He hasn’t even heard what Harry’s going to say but he can’t let him twist it back like it’s _Niall’s_ fault. 

“I was what?” he asks, like prodding a beaten bear. “I was your best friend? Your Not-Boyfriend? I was in love with you?” 

Niall feels winded now he’s actually said it. He reaches for his glass and drains it. From the corner of his eye he can see Harry gaping at him. 

“You were upset,” Harry counters and the calm tone is gone now. He‘s finally biting back. “And you didn’t want anyone to know, you didn’t want _me_ to know. God forbid Niall fucking sunshine state shows some sort of real emotion!” 

Niall looks up at him then. “What the fuck?” He can still feel how Harry had squeezed his hand underneath the conference table the day they decided that it was time to end the band. Niall had felt that hollowness in his throat at the finality of it all but Harry had taken his hand, squeezed their palms together, and offered Niall a glimmer of what was to come. 

“You just wanted to piss off on holiday,” Harry says harshly and he raises a hand, points his finger at Niall across the kitchen. “Bury your head in the sand!” Harry shouts. “Disappear away from the reality of what was happening and hope it was going to go away. You were just clinging on to what you knew because it was familiar. I wasn’t your boyfriend, I was just someone who knew exactly what you were going through.”

Niall’s throat burns. That wasn’t it at _all_. Sure, Niall had been crushed that it was over but he knew it was the right time. He’d finally get the time to fix up his garden, maybe redecorate the kitchen. He’d clear out the spare room so Harry could use the wardrobe, move the cars in the garage to make room for Harry’s. 

Niall can’t speak. He closes his eyes and tries not to picture his-- _their_ home.

“I don’t do that, Niall.” Harry says. “Life’s too short to ignore the opportunities out there.”

“You didn’t have to burn bridges to get there,” Niall snaps. “Yeah, I wanted to go on holiday, to decompress. We’d just done another fucking world tour, I was tired, I wanted to get my hearing back, wanted to spend time with _you_ without having to share you with everyone else. That’s what _boyfriends_ do.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just breathes through his nose, nostrils flared. 

“Or so I thought. Instead you fuck off to America, like you always do but this time you didn’t speak to me ever again.” 

Harry’s face twists. “That wasn’t-- I--”

Niall raises his eyebrows at him. There’s a tiny bit of him crumbling away inside. For so long he had been righteously angry but the foundations are starting to crack. 

“I was trying to protect you,” Harry finally spits out. “I wasn’t going to rub it all in your face that someone wanted me.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Do you think I’m delusional enough to think that it wasn’t going to happen? Fuck off your high horse. Of course you were going to get signed on again, you fucking bankroll the label. They weren‘t going to let their cash cow fade into obscurity.”

Harry’s face looks like he’s been slapped. Niall relishes it for a moment. It was something they never spoke about as a band, but Niall knew they all thought it.

“Then what’s the fucking problem?” Harry snaps. “If you were so okay with it, why did you act like such a bitter and twisted arsehole? You dropped off the side of the earth. You missed Zayn’s wedding, for fuck’s sake. You’ve refused to do anything next year for the anniversary. Liam’s gutted!”

Niall stares at the grain in the marble. He can’t defend himself against that one, there’re emails piling up in his inbox unopened. London felt too much like home, the home he had built for him and Harry _after_. He can’t go back to that alone. 

“Don’t act like I’m the only one to blame for the silence between us,” Harry continues, voice wavering a little. “You refused just as many of my phone calls as I did.”

Niall tightens his hand around his glass. Those phone calls don’t count. A few half hearted attempts to get Niall on the phone to discuss possible tour dates don’t make up for months of radio silence.

“You didn’t even ask me to come!” And something gives way in his chest at finally admitting it. It's been bottled up there too long. He avoids Harry's stare. “You didn’t even _tell_ me.” He takes a breath and it’s shuddery, stings the back of his throat. There's a threat that some of the wetness in his eye could stream over. “I assumed that it must’ve meant nothing to you. What we had --” He cuts himself off before he says anything more. “Well, now I know.”

Harry’s hand is too tight when he grabs him. Niall looks up and Harry kisses him. 

It’s too hard, Harry bites at his bottom lip, pushes his tongue into his mouth. Niall kisses him back, lets all his frustration meld into Harry’s mouth and where he’s gripping Harry around his waist. 

There’s adrenaline pumping through his veins, he feels so alert to every scrape of Harry’s teeth, to his thumb pressing against his elbow, to the taste of whiskey at the back of his throat. Harry presses him against the cool marble of the island, bends him over it until Niall’s shoulder brushes against the neck of the whiskey bottle, sends it on its side. The liquid seeps into the back of Niall’s shirt, cool against his skin but Harry keeps kissing him, grinds into Niall’s hips and keeps him lodged against the wet counter. 

Niall drags him closer, pulls at Harry’s shirt, feels it come loose from his waistband. The skin of his side is hot against Niall’s palm. It feels so familiar, to have his hands on him again. Harry gasps into his mouth, bites at his bottom lip again before kissing him properly. 

Niall’s mouth feels raw, the skin around his mouth sensitive to the rough of Harry’s jaw. He lifts a leg to counteract the way Harry has him bent, drags it up over Harry’s hip to pull him closer with his calf. Harry groans into his mouth, ruts against him, and Niall feels hard he is pressing against his groin. 

Harry’s hand spans the width of his thigh, hoists him up onto the island better until Niall’s other foot leaves the ground. It’s slippy and the edge of the table digs into the base of his spine awkwardly but Harry buries his head in Niall’s shoulder and bites at the skin there, sucks on it until it’s throbbing. Niall gasps, grips at Harry’s neck, his fingers sliding into the hot of his scalp. 

Harry stares at him when he lifts his head. His eyes wide and blown, mouth wet. He lifts a hand and puts it against Niall’s overheated cheek. It’s wet. 

It brings everything into sharp focus. The fight, what he’d said. Niall smells whiskey, strong and chemical at the back of his throat. The table is cold, hard against his waist. 

Harry’s expression isn’t hard anymore, Niall can feel the anger fizzle out of him as he realises. It feels familiar, so achingly like all the times they’ve done this before. That pull towards Harry that Niall hasn’t felt so physically in a long time. 

He’s thought of this before, dreamt of it, wished for it, hated himself for it. 

He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Harry. 

That’s the only thing different -- the silence between them. Normally they’d be laughing by now, one of them giggling into the other’s mouth. Niall trying to talk dirty just to make Harry splutter against him. 

Niall doesn’t feel like laughing, the moment feels too weighty for that. He rolls his hips, every movement feeling calculated and important. Harry groans softly above him, his chest meeting Niall’s until there isn’t a space between them. His hand is still on Niall’s cheek, his thumb near his lip. His mouth is burning but he wants Harry to kiss him again, just so he can feel his mouth on him. 

It feels too slow, right after that frenzied moment that found Niall sprawled across the counter. Harry pulls away for a moment, reaches for Niall’s waistband. Niall leans back, pushes his shoulders against the wet below him. He wants out of his shirt but he’s following Harry’s lead, doesn’t want to risk changing whatever he’s got in mind. 

Now that he’s noticed it, the silence is nearly unbearable. He can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the buzz of the lights. He wants to say Harry’s name, moan at the feel of his hands on his hips as he pulls his clothes off, wants to shout at him some more. 

He knows that this is probably a mistake. That it won’t resolve anything. 

Harry bites at his stomach, a sharp pain that makes Niall wrench his leg up into the air, before he sucks the head of Niall’s dick into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Niall finally says. Harry gasps wetly around Niall’s dick and sucks him deeper. Everything floods south, that anger in his belly turns molten, drains down into his dick until he’s rock hard against Harry’s tongue. 

His head swims, the lights in the ceiling blur across his vision. He hasn’t felt like this in months. 

Niall fists a hand in Harry’s hair, tugs at it how he remembers Harry likes. It comes back instantaneously, that familiar whimper Harry makes when his mouth’s full, that building in his gut. He tries to remember the last time he heard Harry like this. It’s been so long. 

“C’mere,” Niall gasps out, pulling at Harry’s hair to get him to stop sucking him. It’s a loss when he pulls off wetly, spit stringing out from his rosy red bottom lip and the tip of Niall’s dick, just as red. 

Harry stands up, leans over him easily to kiss him and they fall back into the rhythm easily. Harry tastes of skin and salt and alcohol, it makes Niall’s buck against him, one hand still twisted in his hair and the other pushing to get Harry’s boxers over his arse. 

The first moment of skin on skin makes Harry break away, suck in a rattling breath near Niall’s ear before he wraps a hand around both of them together. It’s a touch too dry, even with Harry leaking all over them and Niall’s spit-slippery dick. 

Niall thrusts up, meets Harry’s pelvis with a grunt. Harry tightens his fingers, drags his lips against the sensitive underside of Niall’s jaw. 

Harry comes with a muted sound that could be Niall’s name, bites down on Niall’s shoulder through his shirt until Niall has to pull him away. He glances down between them, watches Harry’s hand twist and the red push of both their cocks through his fist. Harry blurts out a final drop of come, slicking wetly over his fingers and spreading down over Niall’s dick. 

It’s a visual Niall will never get tired of. 

He closes his eyes, savours the moment in case he never gets to feel it again and comes into Harry’s hand. 

“Watch your feet,” Harry warns him when the buzzing in Niall’s ears calms down and he sits up from where he was sprawled across the counter. He feels gross, shirt sticking to his back and reeking of drink. The whiskey bottle is smashed on the floor, shards of glass scattered across the tiles. He hadn’t even noticed. 

Harry steps away, loafered feet slightly more protected than Niall’s bare ones and tucks himself back into his trousers. He doesn’t glance up or meet Niall’s eyes. 

Everything hardens in Niall again. That unresolved anger. 

“Night then?” he asks.

Harry doesn’t even answer. 

*

Harry’s in a deck chair the next morning. The sea is crystal blue and the sight is even more beautiful than Niall remembered. 

He’s wearing a white shirt, crisp against the sky. Wings peek out of the lapels, buttons only joining around his belly button.

He doesn’t say anything when Niall takes a seat on the lounger beside him. Just peels his banana slowly, eyes set on the horizon.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Niall ultra aware of the sound of Harry’s slow breathing compared to his own quickening heartbeat. They’re not even talking, Niall isn’t sure why it’s making his pulse go into overdrive. 

Harry clears his throat, finishes his banana and Niall’s stomach lurches, anticipating what he’s going to say. 

But he doesn’t say anything. 

Just pushes his hand through his hair and stands up, barely even looking at Niall as he passes him to go back into the house. 

Niall’s pulse dies down. His stomach clenches at the loneliness of it. And he stares at the calming sea. 

When he next sees him, he’s changed. The shirt he’s wearing is buttoned at his naval, jeans tight and black, waistband cutting into his hips. He’s wearing a pair of boots and Niall isn’t sure how his feet haven’t fallen off, it’s definitely the hottest day they’ve had all week. 

Niall twists off the cap of his water bottle, stares at him across the archway between the living room and the kitchen. 

“You off out?” Niall asks, because it feels ridiculous that they haven’t spoken all day. 

Harry glances up, his face blank but Niall thinks it’s forced, there’s something in the way he narrows his eyes at him. 

It feels like they’re sixteen again and Harry’s just been told off by one of their handlers, gone into a full strop where he’d huff for hours and not speak to anyone.

“Don’t wait up,” Harry tells him, voice rough. 

His keys bulge out of his back pocket when he shoves them into his jeans, highlighting how tiny they are and Niall watches as he leaves, the front door banging when he’s gone. 

It’s strangely quieter when he knows that he’s got the villa to himself -- even though Harry had been a wall of silence all day. 

His fingers itch with boredom and Niall considers going back to the bar he went to yesterday. H remembers the way but he isn’t sure if he wants the white noise of strangers right now. 

He cleans up instead. There’s glass in the corners of the kitchen, lodged into the gaps of the island and under cupboards. He brushes it carefully, scooping it up before starting to methodically mop his way from the front door to the patio door. 

It’s hard to keep his mind off where Harry is and what he’s up to. His mind wanders in flashes. Harry drunk off his mind, Harry’s hand in someone else’s, Harry in a ditch somewhere.

His back aches by the time he’s done, the entire tiled floor shiny and slippy, but it doesn’t make him feel much better. 

It doesn’t work up his appetite either but he makes himself dinner, bland compared to everything Harry’s been making him since he got there. It only makes him think of Harry again, of him bent over the chopping board with lengths of chorizo and bright yellow peppers. 

He eats on the beach because he can’t face eating at the island, not after last night, and then tramps sandy footprints across his freshly washed floor on his way to bed.

It’s nearly dawn when Niall’s bedroom door bangs open and the light flicks on. It’s disorientating for a moment before he realises it’s just Harry. 

He’s standing against the doorframe across the room and Niall can see the drunken leer on his face that makes his stomach bubble. Harry looks at him like he's looking right in, picking a tiny hole in his tough skin and crawling under.

He feels disjointed. Like when the train next to you moves away, leaving you behind slightly queasy at the phantom feeling of moving, your carriage still stock still. He forces himself out of bed. It doesn’t seem right to be lying when Harry clearly wants to talk about something.

“Touch me,” Harry demands out of the blue. Niall takes a step back. He’s clearly drunk, his eyes unfocused as they stare through Niall. “Come on, touch me.”

Niall looks him over. Harry’s shirt is gaping open, rumpled around the waist where it’s become untucked. There’s a dodgy-looking stain on his thigh and when he flicks his eyes up to his face he catches on a freshly-bitten bruise on his collarbone. 

“Had fun then?” Niall can‘t help the acidic tone. Harry stares at him, one eyebrow raising. He looks aloof but that could be a by-product of the stench of rum that’s radiating off him. He lifts a hand, brushes it over the bruise. 

He suddenly feels silly standing in the middle of Harry's guest room, half naked and shivering even though it's still sticky humid indoors.

Harry's stare turns blank. "Just enjoying my holiday, Niall. Like you wanted me to."

Niall twists his lip under his teeth, flicks his eyes away from Harry's face and catches again on the darkening bruise right where his garish shirt is slipping away.

He wants to shout at him. Scream at him that that _isn’t_ what he meant but he doesn’t have the energy. 

“I can book a flight for the morning,” Niall says instead. It’s something that he had mulled over the night before, there’s nothing stopping him from leaving now. “You can have all the fun you want.”

Harry’s face falls and he turns clumsily to walk back into the landing. Niall thinks he’s going to his own room but he hears his frustrated growl of "fuck" filter in from the hallway. It gives him a brief curl of satisfaction in his belly before it gives way to something more melancholy.

He doesn’t particularly want to leave if he thinks about it. He feels ridiculous, it’s all he’s wanted for most of the time he’s been here but there’s something making him want to stay.

If he leaves then that means it’s over. Properly over. No fantastical dream of their next meeting when he puts his head to a pillow at night. No what ifs. No maybes.

Harry comes back into the doorframe. “I can’t keep arguing like this.” 

“We’ll keep doing it until we’re both being honest,” Niall tells him, turning round to catch his down-turned expression.

Harry stares at him. He suddenly doesn’t look as drunk as he had done. 

“I’ve had the most horrible week.” 

Harry says it so unexpectedly simply that Niall’s not sure how to respond. They stare at each other for a few moments and then Harry keeps talking. “I’ve been so absolutely fucked _off_ at you for so long that I thought I was over it. I could’ve just left you alone and kept on enjoying my holiday but instead I threw my friends out of my house. Threw someone special out of my bed because I can’t help myself when it comes to you.”

Niall catches the bruise on Harry’s neck again without thinking, swallows the lump in his throat. 

“And then you came here and you were a complete and utter arsehole about everything and I thought _great_. I’m not missing anything without you.” Harry doesn’t even sound angry and Niall thinks that’s what’s unnerving him the most. He just looks dejected. He slumps against the wall, mouth turning down again. “That’s the most horrible bit; I could’ve chucked you out, sent you on your way but -” 

Harry shakes his head. “But I couldn’t. Turns out I was missing _everything_. And then last night --” Harry chokes out. He slides down the wall, landing with a soft thump. His legs sprawl out in front of him. “You were so angry, we were -- that wasn’t --” He drags a knee up in front of him. His jeans are ripped on the inside leg, just on the inseam. He breathes out a ragged puff of air. “It wasn’t meant to happen like that.” Harry looks tortured for a second, still shaking his head into the fabric of his jeans. “None of it was meant to happen like that. We shouldn’t have --”

Niall hears the way he gulps down a breath.

“I fucked it up, like I fucked it up last time,” Harry mutters and Niall feels his stomach dip. "I didn't _mean_ to lose touch with you. It just sort of happened. I was scared."

He takes a shuddery breath and Niall tries to listen but he's speaking into his knee, his voice gone sad.

"I didn't know if we were strong enough," Harry murmurs. "I didn't think I could bring you along with me and be okay. It was all so new. Everyone just wanted _me_. I was allowed to whatever _I_ wanted." He snorts self-deprecatingly. "But it turned out a bit shit, didn't it? You weren't with me." Harry chokes on his words a bit. "And then you were gone and I had fucked it up."

Niall lets his eyes shut. Just so he doesn't have to see his face downturned like this. Niall wishes he said all this three years ago. It would've saved so much heartache. He sniffs and when he opens his eyes, Harry's looking back up at him with big, glassy eyes. 

“Sorry,” Harry says into his knee. 

“Me too,” Niall says because it’s the only thing he can think of to say.

It’s so simple that Niall isn’t sure if he should feel relieved. After everything they’ve argued in circles about it, seems so easy to just say sorry like this. Too easy. 

Harry’s eyelids flutter, shoulders sagging with relief. 

“Can we at least be friends again?” Harry asks. “All that time without talking. I missed my friend. I missed you.”

Niall’s stomach knots. He’s not sure, that’s the problem. He’s not sure if he can go back to having Harry close and not having it _all_. He’s only been with Harry the past week and all they’ve done is snipe at each other until they broke. He can’t do that every day on tour. He can’t do that every day for the rest of his life. 

“Please?” Harry asks pitifully. “We were always friends first.” His face twists and then he laughs to himself. "It's difficult, right?"

“Yeah,” Niall hears himself answering. He runs his hand through his bedhead and echoes Harry’s words back at him. "A different difficult."

He would probably say yes to anything when Harry‘s looking at him like that. Harry gives him a dopey, relieved smile and Niall hopes he remembers this in the morning. Even as smashed as he is, he’s right. They were always friends underneath it all.

“I need sleep,” Harry says quietly. And then even quieter, “Will you still be here?” 

Niall looks him over. He’s still curled on the floor, shirt dirty and gaping. He can see the outline of his butterfly and the bruise on his skin. 

He doesn’t tell him that it’s already morning, sun beginning to creep through the blinds. Instead he just says, “Yeah, I’ll be here.” 

Harry nods and struggles to his feet. Niall doesn’t move to get him, senses that Harry doesn’t want his help and watches as Harry shuffles off into his own room. 

The door closes with a snap and doesn’t budge until the day is nearly done. 

*

When Harry appears down the stairs just after dinnertime he doesn't look hungover but Niall knows he is from the way he bypasses the beer in the door of the fridge and pulls out a bottle of orange juice instead. 

He's washed -- a new bright shirt that makes his face look less sickly pale. Niall suspects he might've swept some bronzer on his face too, just to be sure. 

"Feeling alright?" Niall asks him from where he's perched on a stool at the island. Harry smiles at him. Niall shuffles his cards, counting out three for his game of Solitaire. 

"Had a bit of a big one last night," Harry says. It hangs in the air, not quite like Harry’s finished the sentence. 

He glances over at Niall, mouth poised as if he's going to say something else but he doesn't, just unscrews the lid of the orange juice and takes a swig. 

"You going out?" Niall asks him because his wrist jingles from the bracelets adorning them, slipping over the rolled cuff of his shirt.

"Um," Harry says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah, I've that birthday party."

Niall nods once and then looks back at the grain of the marble in front of him. He's sure he can find something to amuse himself with -- he's just lain about all day, nothing stopping him doing the same all evening. He curls his fingers into a fist and knocks it against the inside of his knee. He's going a bit mad, if he's truthful. Spending the entire day mulling over Harry's words from last night.

"Do you want to come with me?" Harry asks. Niall looks up at him. Sees the way he’s frowning a little, the way he’s tucked his lip under his teeth. He fiddles with the bottle of orange juice, rips at the plastic label around the top. 

Niall's feet find the floor and he goes around to the other side of the island, stands a step too close to him and when Harry takes a deep breath, Niall can hear the shakiness in it. He looks up and they’re pressed so close that Niall could scrape his teeth across the stubble on Harry’s jaw. 

Harry shrugs, jerks his shoulder up so quick that Niall feels it, he’s still pressed so close. 

“This is me being honest,” Harry says and Niall can feel the warmth of his breath. "Asking you to stay. With me." It takes all of Niall's strength to push away from the counter and Harry. It's the first reference to their conversation last night and Niall can't find any words to reply with. His chest feels a bit tight at the knowledge that Harry remembers it. 

“Ok,” Niall says quietly and steps back to fully take in the width of Harry’s shaky smile. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push for anything more. "I'll go get dressed?"

Harry nods, thumb pulling at the label again and Niall tries not to think of his expression as regretful already. He’s suddenly unsure that this is a good idea at all but there’s a building sense of excitement to get out of the house, to be _included._

Upstairs, Niall drags on a patterned shirt of Harry's and buttons it right up. The bottom four buttonholes are loose from wear but unsurprisingly the ones closer to his neck are stiff. It’s soft over his shoulders and he pulls at it to sit right around his waist. He thinks he remembers it from before, the material round the elbows growing worn.

He’s stalling. Taking his time with brushing his teeth and coiffing up his hair. Leaving Harry to wait downstairs. Even with their discussion last night, there's still so much left to resolve. They're still circling each other like they were at the start of the week. It makes his heart ache to think that the easy to and fro between them has disappeared for good. He doesn’t want this stilted, guarded atmosphere to exist forever now. 

The front of his hair wilts a little under the amount of product he’s got in it. He runs his fingers through it and it feels sticky, hair clumping together, but he doesn’t have the time to stick his head underneath the tap so he ruffles it slightly and keeps it the way he is. 

He has the ridiculous urge to check himself in the mirror again, making sure that his outfit is sitting right. He wants to impress. Impress Harry. But he also wants to look good, show whoever he meets at the party that he’s fine. That he’s recovered and not spent the past week drinking his sorrows in his boxer shorts. He wants to prove a point. 

He’s not entirely sure who to.  


Harry looks nervous when Niall appears at the bottom of the stairs. His hair is quiffed up, the length of it looking silly as it falls back behind his ear but it looks soft, like he soaked it in coconut conditioner and dried it properly instead of letting the sun bleach it dry. Niall wants to run his hands through it, feel how soft it is against the web of his fingers. It makes his own hair look like a catastrophe. 

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Harry asks. Niall can't help but cement another brick of defence around himself. He knows that Harry probably regrets asking him to come along but he doesn’t need to hear it vocalised. There’s thinly veiled concern there but it grates at Niall that he keeps playing the smothering mother hen, clucking about him like he’s still poorly. 

Niall forces himself to take a breath. This isn't how it's supposed to go. He's supposed to have got rid of the bitterness. He smiles at him instead, happy to find that it comes almost naturally.

"It'll be fun, won't it?" Niall asks him. "Parties are fun."

Harry nods and Niall can see the way his throat is working, swallowing down words he might want to say. Niall wishes he would just let them out. He's getting tired of great big pink elephants in the room. Niall knows that this party is important, it's why Harry's been lingering about Ibiza all this time. Niall's eye catches the bruise on his collarbone again. 

"Look," Niall says and reaches forward, grabbing at Harry's wrist. Harry gasps quietly in response, fingers twisting but not enough to get out of his grip. "If you really don't want me to come, you have to say. I thought we were being honest with each other?” 

Harry blanches. "I do want you to come," he says and then bites his lip. “It’s just there will be people there who --”

Niall watches as his face twists. He looks nervous and it’s making Niall feel antsy too. He pulls his hand away, ready to retreat back to the living room if Harry really doesn’t want him to go. He won't push his way back into Harry's life. He feels a lick of disappointment that Harry's backing down already. 

“Who what?” Niall asks instead, toeing the line with their honesty agreement. He's not going to give up so easy.

Harry’s shoulders fall in a sigh. “Who know. About me and --”

Niall swallows. He thinks he understands. _He’ll_ be there. 

“Let’s go,” Niall finds himself saying, sliding his hand back over Harry’s wrist again. He makes the decision in a split second and Harry stares at him with wide eyes as Harry tugs him towards the front door. "Let's go."

*

Niall grips the edge of the gangway. It rocks a bit, a lull with the nearly nonexistent ripples this close to shore. The water laps noisily against the side of the boat. 

He feels sick. 

“You didn’t think to mention that this was on a fucking boat?” Niall asks as his stomach rolls again. They had stayed silent in the car, a foot of space between them in the back seat as the taxi had wound its way around the coast. The sun had been setting and Niall had stared at it instead of staring at Harry.

“It’ll be fine,” Harry says, a hand skimming across the base of his back, disappearing for a moment before it comes back, a firm reassuring weight. 

“Why did I agree to come again?” Niall asks. Harry laughs. There’s a moment of dead air between them which should’ve been filled with something flippant like _because you love me_ but they let it linger awkwardly until the boat rocks again.

"Because we're being friends," Harry says instead, nudging him in the back. Niall takes a breath and tightens his fingers around the banister to pull himself up the walkway. 

He feels slightly better when he’s inside, the cabin less rocky than the bridge up to it. It’s large, an expansive luxury yacht apparently filled to the brim with people partying. There’s a nervous anticipation building in the pit of his stomach in case he sees someone he knows. It's distracting enough that he's not worrying about being in a confined room or being out to sea so soon after the accident. His hands shake and he can't work out which set of nerves its stemming from.

There’s part of him craving to get on the dance floor, he hasn’t been out in the company of people in so long. But Harry’s pulling on his mask, a pretty little blue velvet thing that curves around his eyes and settles at the bridge of his nose, and he wants nothing more than to just spend the entire evening with him. 

“Did this slip your mind too?” Niall asks, reaching up to thumb over the soft velvet. Harry pulls a face that Niall can only see half of. 

“Didn’t think you’d come, did I?” he says quietly and it’s very nearly carried away by the hubbub of people around them. For once, Niall doesn't take it as a jab. 

Niall takes a breath and shrugs. “And here I am. Maskless at a masked party.”

Harry beams at him, his face half hidden. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll nab you one that someone’s left at the bar.” 

“Yeah,” Niall snorts. He feels like he’s crashing a party he definitely wasn’t invited to. “That’ll draw less attention to me.” He sounds too sarcastic so covers himself quickly before Harry can call him on it. “Why on earth would you throw a _masked_ party?” Niall asks, keeping his voice down because he’s not sure who can hear them with the multi layer deck above them. 

Harry shrugs, thumb working its way over the blue velvet near his ear. The ribbon makes a dent in his hair but he looks good. Niall feels the air leave him quickly. Being friends, just friends, is going to be harder than he thought.

“This is just so _ridiculous_ ,” he huffs and turns away so he’s not looking at Harry’s face anymore. 

“It’s to mask his wrinkles now he’s an old man,” Harry explains and Niall can see him in the reflection of the window. It’s dark enough to be more like a mirror than a window now. There’s a shore across the bay, a sparkle of lights in the distance. The reflection washes out the colour, leaving Harry just a pale figure as he fiddles with his mask, pulling at his hair to make it sit correctly. 

He’s staring and Harry’s eyes flick over, catches him. Niall blushes and lets his eyes skitter away quickly, blinking to make it seem natural. He’s been caught though and he risks another glance at Harry before looking away, straight through the window and into the crowd and that’s when he catches a glimpse of him. 

“This is Nick’s party,” Niall states. It’s harder to make out Harry’s expression through the mask but he definitely looks a little guilty still. It hits him like a smack to the jaw and Niall tries to not let it show on his face. It all makes sense now, the knowledge settling heavy in his sea-sick belly.

“I thought --” Harry murmurs, his thumb rubbing at his full bottom lip like he does when he’s nervous sometimes. “I thought you had worked that out.”

Niall feels stupid, like he’s made a fatal error. The boat rocks and the lights on the horizon are creeping steadily further away from him. They’re moving. He can’t escape now. 

“You could’ve told me,” Niall mutters. He isn’t angry, not particularly. They’ve had a weird few days and Niall’s exhausted by it, he doesn’t want to argue again. 

Harry watches him, eyes wide in the holes of his mask. 

“Is it a problem?” Harry asks quietly. He rubs at his lip again and Niall feels a stab of guilt.

“Of course not,” Niall says, swallowing down his discomfort. Harry looks a little bit relieved. “Come on, let’s get a drink.” He desperately needs one. 

Inside is hiving with people. They’re all masked but he recognises a few people. Just vaguely from what feels like a lifetime ago. There’s two balloons strung up to the bar, a huge blue ‘three’ and gold ‘five’. There’s a door leading to the back of the boat, all decked in fairy lights that lead the way to the bar. It’s quieter out here, just a few people sitting along the edge of the bar and smoking off the edge. They’re picking up speed, a breeze ruffling through Niall’s shorn hair. 

He squeezes onto a chair in the middle of the bar and reaches for the attention of the barman. Harry’s disappeared behind him, saying hello to everyone probably. Niall’s only made his way through an inch of tequila out of a sticky thick rimmed cup and a gulp of citrusy beer before there’s a hand at his elbow. 

He’s wearing an elaborate mask, black velvet marked out with silver and ornate beading that covers half his face but he still knows it‘s Nick. There’s a large feather sticking out from his ear, black and tickly looking, it‘s barbs fluffing out behind him as he tips his head to him. Niall feels naked without one. 

“Happy birthday,” Niall says when he settles. There’s a twist of dread in his belly but he leans into Nick‘s embrace anyway, feels his hand pat comfortingly at his back. He smells of familiar cologne. It makes his heart race because he’s smelt it on someone else’s skin recently too. 

“Thanks,” Nick says, tipping his head to the side. His shirt looks dishevelled, like it’s been pulled at. There’s lipstick smeared across his jaw where his stubble is growing in again. Niall hasn’t heard his voice in ages, he’s stopped listening to the radio.

Niall swallows around his tongue and drains his beer. 

“It’s a nice party,” Niall says but it comes out like a question. Niall turns towards the bar, feeling a flush of embarrassment. He doesn’t know what to say or why there’s a twinge of annoyance growing.

“Well,” Nick says and Niall wishes he would take off the mask, just so he can see his expression properly. His eyes are piercing but it’s disjointed and confusing for Niall, he lifts his hand for another tequila. “We had to come up with something rather last minute, but a yacht is something different, isn‘t it? Always something special about a yacht party.”

Niall’s stomach drops. He thinks of the bottles behind Harry’s bar and of the speakers hidden in the kitchen. 

“You were planning the party at Harry’s.” 

This time it isn’t a question. Nick smiles, his mouth turning up at one side. “Harry needed to clear us out to play hospy.”

Niall’s throat burns as he swallows down the tequila but Nick’s expression turns soft. “How was that, anyway?”

“The accident or Harry’s brand of nursing?” Niall asks, his voice cracking on the joke.

Nick smiles at him. “Glad you’re ok. I don’t think the world was quite ready for one of you to kick the bucket. How would the reunion go?”

Niall doesn’t answer. He doesn't think of the reunion that won't happen. Instead he orders another shot, flicking it across the bar towards Nick with his thumb. The barman should just let him keep the bottle. He pours a few, glasses going sticky as the tequila sloshes over the side and into the next one in line. 

“Thanks,” Nick murmurs and Niall can barely hear him over the music thumping through the cabin. It’s dark, the lights turning blue and purple from behind the DJ deck. Niall blinks back to Nick to watch him reach up and shove his mask up his face to rest against the top of his head. His hair sticks up at an odd angle but at least Niall can see his entire face now. “He’s mad about you, you know.”

Niall swallows and tastes nothing but the tequila on his tongue. 

The music changes to something a little bit older, it reminds Niall of being in Brazil, of sweaty t-shirts stuck slickly to his shoulders and drinking caipirinhas out of plastic glasses. He glances across the dance floor, Harry was there that night, but he can’t place him now. He had on a black t-shirt that clung to the sides of his hips and went sheer when the lights turned green. Lime bursts over his tongue and he runs it over his teeth, feels out the sharpness of them. They had kissed that night, for the first time in public, and no one had batted an eyelash at them. Niall had never felt so alive. 

"We're being friends," Niall tells him. dragging himself back into the present.

“And you are for him,” Nick says, as if Niall had never spoken. Nick bites into a wedge of lime and Niall watches him wince. “Shots are for children, an old man like me can’t do it anymore.”

“Thirty-five and over the hill,” Niall laughs and passes him another one. “Drink up, old man.”

Nick’s smile flattens on his face. “Don’t change the subject. Only I can do that. It‘s _my_ birthday.”

Niall laughs softly to himself. It was worth a try. He can’t get the image of Harry out of his head, flushed from dancing and grinning dazedly back at him. There had only been a few more shows left of their tour. It feels so long ago. He knows he would look very nearly the same now if he could find him in the crush of the crowd, just a few years older but that same manic grin on his face as he dances to the beat. 

“You and him?” Niall asks because if they’re going honest he may as well go for it. His throat feels tight, like something’s making it clog over now he’s committed to talking about it, his body betraying his resolve. He can smell a cigarette and his mouth floods with saliva.

Nick gives him a fond look, hand poised over his glass. “We gave it a go.” He pauses and Niall wants to ask for how long, how _serious?_ but he can’t get his throat to work. Nick surveys him carefully, offers him another small smile, “But his heart’s not in it. I think that’s obvious.” 

He pauses again and Niall feels uncomfortable talking about this at a busy bar. He’s not sure if anywhere quieter would be better either but Niall wouldn’t feel quite so awkward at making the birthday boy look like he’s about to cry in the middle of his party.

“And yours?” Niall clears his throat. He has to know.

Nick raises an eyebrow. The song changes again and there’s a break in the music, the songs not changing seamlessly. There’s a chorus of whoops and laughter from the dance floor before the DJ gets back to it and the song kicks in again. 

“No need to worry about mine,” Nick says with a sad smile. Niall opens his mouth to speak but Nick beats him to it, “He dropped by last night.” Niall’s mind flickers to the bruise on Harry’s collarbone. “He was babbling on about how you were wearing my ring --”

Niall flushes but doesn’t say anything. 

“--and he told me what had happened," Nick says quietly and it lingers for a moment. "And I know it’s over. Think I’ve known for a while.” 

It takes a moment for that to settle. A confirmation of what he already knew, really. It stings a little but Niall can’t complain. He knows their history, he had done when he had kissed him that night in Brazil too. It’s just something that’s always going to be there. 

Nick leans down on his elbow, shirt slipping on the wet bar and this way he’s closer to Niall’s ear, bending in so Niall can’t not hear him. “Tell him. Just say and he’ll say it right back.”

Nick steps back and lifts the second last glass, clinks it against the remaining one. He looks a little wistful but he smiles when he offers Niall the other glass. Niall takes it with a smile, thumb in the stickiness down the side. There’s something stirring in him, a confidence building from the way Nick‘s smile is growing into a grin and the aftertaste of tequila lingering in the back of his throat.

He feels a hand on his back and he rolls his spine with it. Nick’s grin widens, his eyes glance over Niall’s shoulder and then Harry swoops in and gathers him in a hug. 

“Happy birthday!” he cries and shoves his face into Nick’s neck. Harry’s clearly found the other bar. Niall watches as Nick laughs, his hand coming up to brush against Harry’s jaw before it goes to his shoulder to push him away. He doesn’t look nervous, he’s still half leaning against the ridge of the bar, hip cocked and one knee bent, but Niall catches the way his eyes flick up to gauge Niall’s reaction before he turns back to Harry. 

“We were just doing some birthday shots,” Nick says and Harry’s face brightens. 

“We should do shots!” he says loudly and lifts a hand to get the barman’s attention. Niall hopes he’s being paid a very big tip for tonight. Nick laughs and pulls him into a hug. 

“No more for me, I’ll leave it for you younguns,” Nick says and pats Harry on the shoulder. Harry gives him a confused little smile, cheek dimpling and forehead wrinkled. Nick pulls down his mask, settling it against the bridge of his nose. Harry still hasn't found him a spare one. “I’ll see you two on the dance floor.”

Harry grins and turns to Niall as Nick slips off. He shoots Niall the same excited grin, eyes sparkling in the lights but Niall can see how he’s appraising him, checking to see how Niall’s taking it. 

He has the urge to just blurt it out now, tell him right here beside a sticky bar that he gets it. 

“Do you want to dance?” Harry asks, beating him to it. 

Niall’s answer gets lost into the roar of the music as Harry grabs his hand and tows him inside to the dance floor. It’s a tiny space full of people pressed against each other. It makes Niall’s stomach swoop, that initial panic of being hemmed in but Harry’s hand is warm in his, his thumb rubbing over the delicate bone at the base of his wrist as he pulls him into the middle of the crush. 

Somebody hugs Harry but he barely looks round, his eyes trained to Niall. They aren’t dancing yet, Niall can barely hear the words or the melody of the song, just the thump of the bass loud behind Harry’s head. It fills him up, bounces around his head as he takes a breath. A pink light is flashing and there’s a surging crowd dancing around them but Niall can’t move, he’s rooted to the spot, staring at Harry stare back at him.

It’s on the tip of his tongue and it’s completely the wrong moment but Niall swallows back the taste of tequila and goes for it. 

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Niall yells at him but Harry frowns at him and dips his head, ear aimed close to Niall’s face because he hadn’t heard him. Niall wishes for a split second they were still outside, out where it’s cooler and he could hear himself speak. 

“What?” Harry screams at him and Niall laughs, a bubble of giddiness at the absurdity of the situation. Maybe it’s better that they’re doing this on the dancefloor -- there’s no room for awkward here. 

"I don't want to be your friend," Niall shouts at him and Harry looks at him a little bewildered. It's hard to work out with the flash of lights and his mask if he heard him. 

Niall leans in and shouts louder, not caring who hears them. Not caring about the rough drag of words up his throat. “I’m still in love with you.”

He’s done being quiet about it. He’s been quiet about it for so long but Harry still can’t hear him, he’s leaning towards him again and Niall takes a chance, does what he had done in Brazil all that time ago. 

His nose knocks against the mask on Harry’s face, dislodges it awkwardly as they brush lips. Niall’s heart is racing, a fast pump that’s making him feel dizzy in the crowd. He’s sweating, already running a few degrees hotter than usual. The boat rocks but Niall can’t tell like this, the dancers creating their own rhythm. 

He drags himself back, lips tingling and he opens his mouth to yell it again but Harry’s staring at him, that excited look on his face, bottom lip tucked into his mouth. His eyes are wide and bright in the disco lights, slightly glassy and hopeful. Niall can still only taste the tequila. 

“Are we doing this _here_?” Harry demands but he has his own giddy laugh to match Niall’s as he says it. Harry’s face cracks in two, smile spreading across his cheeks. They’re already pressing in to each other, just a step and they’re chest to chest. 

Harry’s nape is warm when Niall slides his hand over it and up into his hair. He pulls him close, breathes into the space between his lips before Harry kisses him. 

It’s exhilarating. 

The crowd moves around them, the beat of the music spurring them on and Harry kisses him deeper, his hand reaching up to cradle Niall’s jaw. 

Niall’s nose brushes the edge of the mask, rubbing along the smooth velvet again before dragging it the wrong way. Harry laughs into his mouth, clutches him tighter as Niall fights to get a hand up to his face to push it out of the way. It disappears, elastic band dragging it right off the top of Harry’s head and into the crowd of feet below them but Harry doesn’t seem to care, he just pulls him closer and licks into his mouth. 

“Say it again!” Harry yells at him over the music. Niall takes a breath. There’s so much that they still have to talk about but there’s a tiny flicker of hope that’s calming him down. He knows they’ll get to it eventually.

"I don't want to be your friend!" 

Harry laughs, Niall can feel the vibration of it where his palm is pressed to his chest. "Not that, you arsehole!"

Niall grins. Presses in close again. 

“I love you,” Niall says, watches as Harry’s eyes trace his lips. He smiles then, soft and leans in. 

It’s so much more gentler than before, even with the crush of bodies around them, the shouting and singing. Niall can feel him say it back against his mouth. 

Something wet hits Niall’s shoulder, a slosh of spilt drink but it just soaks into the damp of his sweaty shirt anyway. Harry slots a leg through his thighs so he has something hard to grind down against and he’s hit with a sudden realisation that they’re grinding against each other in a very crowded party, half of the guests dying for something good to gossip about for the rest of the summer. 

But he doesn't care because it’s Harry and he’s done not allowing himself the things he wants. 

Harry pulls away again and Niall follows him with his mouth, desperate to keep going. He feels young and reckless, standing snogging in the middle of a party with Harry’s hands on either side of his face. 

“I love you too,” Harry says. This time Niall can hear him say it, even with the music and the crowd. He can hear how Harry's voice rakes over the words, the rough and crackle of it. 

The song changes around them seamlessly into something Niall at least recognises. He has vague memories of Harry singing this song as it blasted through the speakers of his car, hands on the steering wheel and the window cracked as they raced down a road somewhere. It was a blur beyond the windows, their destination less important than cataloguing the things that Niall wanted to remember: the way Harry’s hair was down, the rings on his fingers, the way he grinned around the words as he sang.

The crowd yells in recognition and suddenly Harry’s being engulfed in arms, being dragged into the crowd to dance. 

He laughs, head thrown back and goes. 

Tugging Niall right along with him.


End file.
